The wind can map every part of my being.
It erodes away my attachments, carves with its small teeth hollow caverns into my bones until I am made only of glass and sand and crystal. I move like light, faster than a bird, cleaner than a diver in free fall, gentler than a leaf and a wave and a dandelion. I let the wind carry me upwards and downwards, rustling piles of leaves, cleaving the mountains, raging in hurricanes.
I am the grinning tiger, the tornado, the flock of geese flying south for the winter.
The wind carries me—
And, just as suddenly, it is gone. The wind dies down and I do the same, my hair, soul, and breath settling back into place.
O roaring power, o sweet nothing, get me drunk on little breezes.