Transmigration of the Wind

The strong gust of wind was cut off from its source; a frigid early spring blast that swept across a lofty mountain range, high above British Columbia. It then encircled one of the lesser peaks and swooped down upon the slippery ice pack below, reaching out with cold, airy tentacles to caress the frozen surface, as it skimmed ever downward, dipping its fingers into each crevasse, only to dissipate into nothingness when swallowed by the vast emptiness of the frigid ice chasms below. The main body of wind rushed on, over the thick, craggy glacier that had recently become an impenetrable shroud for several unfortunate ice climbers, who for one fateful moment challenged the supremacy of the mountain. The wind now reached magnificent snow fields. Untouched by the imprint of man; it swirled the fresh offering of snow into powder so fine and glimmering, that the human eye left unprotected, would most certainly be blinded by its glare. The wind was less bitter now. The warmth of the sun at the lower altitude tempered its bite as it continued downward past a small group of skiers, lending sting and color to their cheeks. It exhilarated them and the memory would help bring them back to the mountain again and again, much as the drug addict must return to that which obsesses him. The wind had now reached the tree line and was met by green, trenchant sentries waiting in dwindling cradles of snowy whiteness. At first they would bend and sway in deference to the wind, as it attempted to bully its way past. Then the trees became the master, slowing and tempering that which so boldly challenged their strength and stamina. This left the wind transformed once again, now becoming an energetic breeze, reaching out to the upper meadows of the mountain: adolescent fields now alive with the arrival of a warming season and the promise of springtime’s grace. The breeze was refreshing in the late morning sun. Its welcoming touch stirred everything in sight: rippling through the young grass, now caressing the immature leaves on awakening trees that harbored mating song birds and caustic squirrels. The high meadow spring flowers swayed beneath its gentle touch and a hare frolicked this way and that in the beautiful moment called ‘spring’. The breeze then happened upon a flowing stream. Icy cold and gurgling, the brook wended its way down the mountain side, offering a ride to the transient traveler and carrying it along on its surface, just above the ripples and eddies that danced over boulders and foaming white water. It tumbled along with the stream, as other small rivulets joined in and soon was hitching a ride with a river that had grown more powerful: over falls and through canyons, now widening out as the steep incline of the mountain slowly vanished. The river grew fat and sluggish in its mighty girth and the wind, with very little propulsion, had no choice but to lessen once more and become a mere whisper of what it once had been. The scene was no longer recognizable to the errant puff of air. Everywhere was the beginnings of the trappings of man and fearful in its vulnerability, it chose to remain with the river: skimming along under steel bridges, past little towns and eventually a small city. It dare not leave the river, for it feared dissipation and the river must wend its way to the sea if the little breeze was to survive. And just when it seemed that all hope might be gone for the tiny little waft, the languid river gulped in its first salty taste of the ocean and the childlike wisp of air was immediately adopted by the offshore breeze, caressing it gently in its more powerful grasp: nursing it back to health, giving it the strength to survive. Then, into a harbor that was generously sprinkled with small vessels: some with trim masts that invited the puff of air to now come and frolic, if only for a moment or two. The regenerated breeze felt stronger now, as it playfully sparred with white sails, while tumbling this way and that, tickling and teasing all that it touched. It had now reached the ocean, where it would once again be renewed: drawn upward far above the clouds and absorbed into the powerful upper level winds, only to begin another long and treacherous journey, fraught with excitement, as well as adventure. And in the end, there was and still is the vast and powerful sea, from whence all life once emanated and in its own and very special way, so too . . even the wind. © 2015 Diane Lefebvre