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| Photo by Guillaume Bleyer on Unsplash |
I let the wind take away my thoughts. Only the palm fronds
moved by Santa Ana breezes remain. Lit by sun, they gently wave back and forth,
rocking my mind into a poetic trance.
The wind's fierceness now calmed, no longer gusts raging
through valleys, whipping up dust and fire. This spirit of the desert named for
the mother of the mother of compassion holds my attention by what it touches. In
this moment all is well and yet beneath the surface of this calm, sorrow rests.
The sun is setting and the tree casts its shadow over the
terrace just as smog or smoke veil the mountains that were bright in this
morning’s sun. Everything moves or is
moved. The morning drifts into evening. The winds die to breezes to stillness.
But right now the wind picks up a little as the air passes
over the heated land. There is still life in the world. Life still beats my
heart and the wings of mourning doves. Though ashes may ride on the wind from
some not so distant fire, though smoke may hide the mountains, the sun will
still set and rise. And because of the wind and fires and smoke and ash, the
sun will be more beautiful as it slips below the horizon.
