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Show 69 THE WIND I can hear the wind again. It sweeps across the valley floor, bold as brass, snapping b r i t t l e bones from the skeleton tumbleweeds, leaving them scattered and stuck on mesquite. It chases lizards and l i f t s long-legged spiders to new homes. It paces the perimeter of my house with its morning, i t s sound shaking in the corners of windows, singing like a banshee, insistent. I cover my head with my warm pillow and hex the wind to no avail. I t breaks i t s way into my house with i t s frantic song, oozing through cracks, plaster and glass, whispering around my legs and shoulders. By homing instinct i t finds the hollow places inside of me, the chambers and tunnels. It carves g r a f f i t t i on my intestinal walls and t e l ls stories of people alone, of trilobites climbing out of cracks where the wind has sucked up the water, of friends that have all blown away. It f i l l s up my hollows with restless air and makes me ask questions. |