And it’s more than normal windy in this sunny second city in a country I’m a part of yet apart from.
And it’s bitter sorts of blows of place I’m forced to call my home, but has no home at all in the end.
For it’s an always sort of ending in the place so busy bending to its worst of mad worlds and words.
Sentiments unyielding and unsound, without obedience to the shadows overhead.
In the stable second city, shadows of above are wings that dive and ride currents wind and water, while from solid rock and stoic earth, one can watch and wonder.
Or marvel at the stark divide that goes beyond a cut made metal and miracle both paper and blood gave to future ground walkers, sky stalkers, evidence questionable at times as to the minds of so many clamoring to claim a piece, a place, a new purchase.
But what we buy and sell of timelines gone, a lien at best leaning on futures undecided yet, now is met with forever endings on the one, and winds unusual yet life as possible on the other.
Close yet far away, they say, as yet another windy day takes shape but not the same, depending on what mass it flows over, skirts round, or drives to ground like hunter, hare, and field.
So far afield remains so near, so many lines clear from there to here, missing nuance quite essential in ages crossed and tangled, set for survey lines all angle, one might note the difference in what breeze passes and which will outlast.
It’s more than normal windy in these days of future past, where seeing what becomes is like trying to see the air, a task behemoth that steals your breath yet feels essential.
So let the sun, and find some.
For all that’s here is gust and rush that none can catch but to be caught up in what is unseen but can undo, or move, or smash.
It’s of much more than normal windy, unaware of what’s my city, or whether ever there is.
