On wind

Waiting for the bus.

The way the wind lifts me, turbulent. Buffeting. Insisting on me. It presses the hood of my jacket up against my cheek, against the whole side of my face. Pummels my brow and sucks on the deep socket of my eye and the tip of my nose where it pokes out the wind shadow of the hood.

My jacket’s hood is warm. But the wind shifts, turns back, lifts the hood away from the side of my face. Inflated like a wind sock. One side of my face is pretty chilly now. And all dried out and sore with wind.

The calm between the wind’s breaths. When everything goes slack. Everything loosens, sighs. Surprising silence for just a second. Right before it turns again and lifts me, threatens to lift my phone out of my hands, urges my hood back into the side of my face.

Look up. The bus is here.


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