The Wind: A Sound Poem

The wind,

rushing through tree tops,

sneaking around corners

and slipping through open windows;

its passage marked by 

the rustle of leaves,

the creak of shingles

and the window's Aeolian moan.

Stand still and listen.

Feel the wind move past you—

not a creature of free will

nor a disembodied spirit—

just the displacement of air,

atmospheric pressure change:

not real, not romantic, not gothic—

just a thing.

There is no god blowing Psyche to her winged lover,

no bag of winds filling Odysseus' sails;

the howling storm is not made up of lost souls

nor the gentlest of breezes the reminder of a child's kiss.

Tree tops sway,

grain fields wave:

air, the ocean in which we swim,

passes over all of us,

caresses and buffets

and carries its own sounds across the still night.

It is air that brings us the golden trumpet,

the violin's vibration,

the bluster of the politician's speech.

High pressure, low pressure,

air moving from one place to another,

always on the move, always some place to go.

What's that sound?
Hush. It's just the wind.