Blowing in the Wind, Against the Wind, Gone with the Wind, The Wind in the Willows, The Long and Winding Road….

The wind was howling again last night. My near-100-year-old windows rattled in their frames, waking me from what was likely not a sound sleep. The wind stirs what’s at rest. It shudders the shutters.

Throw caution to the wind, the wind in my sails, the wind at your back, three sheets to the wind, the winds of change.

I awoke remorseful, regretful, wishful for more (choices) and for having/not having (chosen).

Run like the wind, spit into the wind, knock the wind out, to the four winds, something’s on the wind.

A December of rain and wind. Tornados, not snow. Sometimes cold but mostly tepid—the middle of weather—no opinion, no color, no point-of-view, no design.

But we witness its wreckage, turn our backs to its insistence, chase what it pulled from our grasp.