The highway outside sings out on occassion, in its dull woosh of speed; like stray bits of breeze looking for the flock before the wind dives through the air with the excitement of sledding kids finishing the climb to the top of a hill- waiting to make the leap back down, and these cars are all people on thier way, sending the wind to scatter.
I used to think of wind as one giant mass moving through the trees, but really it's a collective that regroups after every run. Sometimes they lose a draft, or a chill, and the one guy who likes to twirl leaves- others get rambunctious knocking over lawn chairs, throwing sand into your eyes.
Oh, but the cars, they woosh, too, sets the breeze free, and I don't know who they are, but I like to think of them leaving thier own comfort every so often into some foreign territory, and then rushing back to whatever name thier safety has, and I bet they are on thier way home so late tonight after climbing some hill and the exhileration of speed as we pummel ourselves back to safety- the highway sounds like the leap back down.
-e.
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