Flowing

It's morning, music is going. I'm drinking coffee on my couch, looking out the window, watching the morning breeze. The leaves lift and flutter as the wind blows through the neighborhood - like fingers in hair. I'm reminded of watching the wind up in the Sierras. Cold mountain air through the pines. Whirring. It's about acquiescence. A leaf can not fight the wind. (But it can change the direction.)

I'm thinking about canyon roads. Hot wind - funneled through human technology, not the hillsides of creosote. The twisting black ribbon. These roads - our playground. I'm being a rare passenger as we track the double yellow. Pressure growing and shifting through the curves. I relax as the adrenaline dumps into my system. Building, I laugh in delight. The shift is slight. Hot wind cooling, becoming moister, less harsh - it comes into my lungs. Then the ocean appears and the heat of the desert is a faint memory.