Dazzling wind
The wind doesn’t ask.
It just comes.
Low. Fast. Mean.
It rips the softness right out of the air and leaves nothing but teeth. Trees that thought they were solid are forced to the ground or snapped clean. The earth under my feet flinches. The quiet is gone replaced by a roar that stuffs itself into my chest and then empties it like a fist. I feel it in my ribs first, before the sound even reaches me. Something bigger than me just showed up, and it doesn’t give a about anything I planned.
Leaves get torn off like they never mattered. Dust explodes upward like the ground is bleeding. The light turns hard, almost angry. Everything reduces to the same brutal question: what bends, what breaks, what’s left standing only because it has no choice.
And under all that violence something cold and clear.
This wind doesn’t just destroy. It strips. It takes what was already loose, already dying, already pretending to be permanent, and rips it away. When it finally leaves, the silence is heavier than the noise ever was. The air feels scraped clean. The sky sits too close. Something inside me has been rearranged not gently, not with care, but with force. Like it reached in and moved things around without asking permission.
Some things aren’t here to comfort me.
They’re here to hit hard enough that I can’t pretend I’m not still standing.
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