What the Wind Is Doing

It's rocking an empty flowerpot perched in a pine tree: 'RockABye Baby in the High Top,' its contents shell shocked in this February of zero wind chill. It's the heart's empty nest, cold ripple of a lake that threatens to overtake, were it not for higher ground. We've wind from the northeast, sharp and heartless, harbinger of storms, but I am Barrier Island, formed by one who taught me by salt, sea- shell, and the sting of sand, bitter winter spray in remembered summer. Land bound, one learns to light where something shores us. So here am I , despite trade winds, the Skull and Bones of picturesque pirates, failed story tales where even the wind lies. In the lake one small duck, sustained by its currents paddles my direction, drawn by intuition or design of a kindred spirit who would sail, dive with delight, endure the cold solitude of seagulls at evening, seeking harbor far from their ocean. They are white flags signaling Yes, You will find your heaven.