The Open

The wind, whistling through the trees. The wind, whirling past the long grass. The wind, a heavenly enigma residing in the clouds, diving only into the stubborn depths of our world to bring forth each season.
It’s strange, thinking about the wind. The wind that rustles the leaves on a warm autumn morning, the same wind that  blows heartlessly over the grave of some lost, forgotten soul in the darkness of the night. The way it touches everything, and yet nothing. Always nearby, yet never quite there.
You would see everything if you could ride on the wind. Riding high, timelessly watching vast landscapes evolve and change, or flurrying down brooks, seeing every tiny flower tentatively blossoming in the first mornings of spring. Maybe you could even creep into a house through a gap in the roofing or an open window. You could sneak into a warm house on a cold winter’s eve, and silently observe a sleepy cat curl up by the glowing embers of what had been a roaring fire. The stockings would be hung up ready to be filled with presents for tomorrow, next to the holly and ivy decorating the mantelpiece.
And then you would be back outside, a whirlwind of snow. Dancing with snowflakes, skydiving past houses, down streets and through empty alleys. The night would be yours.
The birds would be with you and you would be with the birds. From the first flower of spring until the last leaf of autumn, they could fly with you, being your company. You could soar with them, rest with them on the lazy summer days and carry them on your fingertips over thousands of miles as they journeyed to their new homes for the winter.
The wind, a cold destroyer. The wind, a kind and gentle breeze. The wind, nowhere yet everywhere. The wind,  an eternal mystery, the strongest of forces and yet the quietest of sounds - the everlasting song.