I am teased with expectation.
There is warmth in the days and the light is changing and the dark comes later by minute later.
Spring hints of its intention with birdsong and an embryonic crocus in the garden and the measured swell of creeks in the foothills.
I am not fond of wind and think of it as an annoyance or a risk. Hell hath no fury like Mother Nature’s wrath in spring. She sends wind to urge winter away but the cold rarely goes its way quietly or without unsettled resistance.
No, I am not fond of wind.
Except when kites are involved.
If I were a kite I would like the wind.
I would pull hard on the string and soar far above where birds fly.
I would twist and turn and circle and plunge simply because I could.
I would brace for gusts in my path, lean in, pick up speed and cruise.
I would be a peacock of a kite, bold and bright, a star among all other kites.
And when it came time to return to earth I would do so gently, gracefully and without getting tied up in knots.
And I would not tire of the wind or wish it gone or begrudge its pass-through.
I would happily expect the wind to suggest the pending homecoming of spring. I would not allow it to tease me.
If, that is, I were a kite.
“Kites rise highest against the wind, not with it.”
I took these pictures on a windy day last spring
at the Kite Festival in Arvada, Colorado. The photo of windswept me was
taken by John Baumchen.