Years ago I wake, and my home is gone.
No bed. No flat walls.
No ground.
Instead I float on the air rushing past,
Stare into the hole before me,
As the whole of space time becomes a wind tunnel.

It’s not so bad.

For years, the flow of air allows me to swoop and dive and soar.
For years, the push of air keeps me in my place.

Sometimes I turn length and breadth to the wind,
Let it blow me where it wills,
But there is no end to its depth and height.

Sometimes I shut my eyes against the rush of air.

Sometimes I cry and rage in the safety of the roar.

But today I wake, and my home is gone.
I am on a road.
The wind is rushing past,
Roaring down the mountains ahead, and
I am flying into the wind,
Rigging my sails and my self for optimal speed.
I am skilled in the ways of wind.
I will cross the mountains.

Snow blown from peaks beyond my reach strikes the windshield.
The car shudders at the gusts.

Sometimes I rage and sing in the face of the roar.

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