Air in a Hurry

I know wind. I know blustery wind gusting to fifty miles an hour. I know days of sustained breezes. I know winds that bring in the rain storm and those that help to move it on its way. I know wind that rips shingles from your roof. Wind that wakes you in the dead of night. Wind that blows so softly that I forget for a minute how entirely windy it is here.


If I have gained anything from living on the high plains in Wyoming, it has been the intimate relationship I have with all manner of gust, current and draft. I will not claim to love it. Or even like it. There are days, frankly, when I barely tolerate it. More days than not, the wind will be blowing. More days than not, I ask myself why I live here.

There are, I suppose, some benefits from wind. I’m sure it has a pretty critical role in maintaining global- atmospheric-pressure something or other. We probably need it for that purpose. I guess I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the wind is harvested here to make electricity. Giant white wind turbines dot the horizon, slowly turning their blades, like sentinels protecting the open prairie.

Sometimes, I will admit, I love the fragrance of the wind as it slips off the grass covered plains. It smells clean and sweet. There are no smoggy days here. There is little humidity. On soft, breezy days, I feel like I am climbing in to a bed made with freshly washed sheets—crisp and new.

I should mention that there is really nothing like standing on an open piece of land with no buildings, roads, power lines, people—just earth and grass-- and letting the force of the wind cover my entire body. It presses against me, blowing my hair, blasting over my skin, roaring in my ears. As I lean into it, I secretly hope the wind will steal away a few of my sins and maybe a couple of regrets. I watch hopefully as it whisks them into the sky, far away from me. It ought to, you know, do that little thing for me. After all, I live with the wind every day. I know it pretty well. I’m starting to think it knows me.