Like children rushing out of the schoolhouse door for recess, the wind tumbles out of a leaden sky this morning ... bursting with energy, caroming off houses and cars and trees and the dwindling piles of earlier snow.
It is lively and assured and unafraid and chock-a-block with energies pent up in the classrooms where it once was 'good.' There is not a mean bone in its body, yet if the temperature drops as predicted, it will no doubt stand accused of various crimes that involve overcoats and mufflers.
Not mean and yet neither stupid enough for the narrow confines of 'benevolence.'
As children simply play and laugh and skin their knees -- full bore, nothing held back, with unconfigured gusto -- so the wind is wind ... edgeless and large, dying and being reborn ...
And all of that without a name.