𝐹𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇,
𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒.
𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓎-𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓀𝒾𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈,
𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒸𝓇𝓎.
𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒾𝓃𝓃𝑜𝒸𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈,
𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓈.

𝐼𝒻 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝒾𝓂𝓅𝓁𝓎 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹,
𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝑒𝒶𝓈𝒾𝓁𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑒𝒹.
𝐼'𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒹,
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈 𝒶𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝑒𝓁𝒹.
𝒯𝑜 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒶𝒻𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇,
𝓉𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓃𝑜 𝑜𝓃𝑒,
𝓎𝑜𝓊 - 𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓎𝒾𝑒𝓁𝒹.

The wind. Ever blowing, unchanging, and yet change
is its nature. Soothing and driving, gentle and furious.
I have written of this before. The wind. I have spoken
of the slow wearing of erosion, down upon the stones,
I have written of the rain it drives to freezing frenzy,
of its gentle breezes, of its gales, of its storms. And I have
felt the wind. I have heard it howl through the trees like an
avenging spirit, I have seen it tear the leaves from the swaying limbs
and raise them high to heaven, and hurl them down to
Earth again, terrible in its fury. I have felt it, when I stood
beside the lake, in the first beginnings of the new Spring, how
it blew softly through my hair, gentle as a mothers hand. I saw
as it stirred the waters of the lake, and set them to lapping gently
at the shore, and at the pillars of the dock, there beside me. And I
remember thinking in that moment, that life was good, and I remember
that I was happy. I have written of the wind. I have seen it, I have felt it,
I have heard it, whispering through the leaves, and knocking the bare limbs
softly together, in that time of winter. I have known the wind. And yet I wonder,
whether something such as this, may ever be truly known, the sighing breeze,
the howling gale. Perhaps.