The Wind Spirit has returned, a blowing, gusting god, leaping back and forth between trees- rushing through the branches of one Douglas Fir, and then magically appearing in the other, a backyard over. He rushes to greet me, blowing my hair back from my face, stinging my eyes with his sharpness and intensity. I greet him back, and focus on my inner fire, sending its warmth through me, to prevent myself shivering in his chill. Like a cat who has undone a ball of yarn in its frenzied play, Wind has blown off nearly all of Maple’s leaves now. The tree was nearly full of them at the beginning of this week, but only a few determined stragglers remain now, maybe out of sport, just to see how long they might last. And so the song of Maple is quieted for the season, her bright soft rustling no longer to be heard until next summer. Now Winter’s song clarifies itself through the voices of the tall Firs, with their deeper, bass shooshing sound. They dance wildly like drunken Bacchanalian priests to Wind’s fevered tune, sharp against the clear blue sky.
“Hail, Spirits of the Land, goddess of this place. I thank you for your blessings of nourishment, of both body and soul. May there be peace between us.”