pneuma

It was the wind that kept me up. No, I heard not its ways, but I wondered its flights. I whirled through the oak’s branches and fell the river’s side. In silent step, I danced the stream, tickled the bird, and rocked the star a lullaby. 

I began to ask what the wind calls itself. Is it ancient or youth. Is the wind one or many. Does the wind have a favorite haunt: a favorite cliff to throw itself down, a favorite field to twist, or favorite scene to sit and watch. Does the wind marvel at us. Does it know me. 

Are its cantos an attempt at my name. Perhaps it calls me a truer one than my tongue permits. Perhaps it stretches my lungs like an accordion, excited by the cacophony which issues forth. I, a silly thing of flesh, toy to the wanderer of clouds. Perhaps it excitedly prods me to figure my bits. Pushes me forward into a blush. Perhaps the wind opens my eyes and peers in asking, what is this.