New Story - How The Wind Blows

How The Wind Plays.

All around the hilltop the wind was screaming, ‘the leaves have fallen, winter is here.' I heard this as I walked the country dirt road for my daily two point something kilometre exercise, and with each step, I looked for an excuse to get out of the bitter cold that soaked into my bones, going deeper and deeper with each footstep.

I knew that I should have been home by the fire, or soaking in a nice hot bubble bath of soft smelling scented crystals in water. However, I wasn't. I was being dutiful to those within the medical profession who had commanded me, yes that is right, commanded me, to exercise more regularly, and thereby reduce all the more my chance of, the onset of diabetes, or a heart attack, or some other invented reason to keep me motivated. They had even boldly suggested, ‘that I might like to go for an easy run.' I knew that that would never happen unless the neighbour's monstrous bull was after me. The walking idea was in effect my giving in to the system of best intentions towards my health. Anyway, my blood pressure was fluctuating again, and that gave me cause for concern, as I did not want a repeat of the blackouts, of a few years ago.

Therefore, as I walked this day, the next day of the rest of my life, yeah right, I looked to see what the wind was yelling about as it danced over the hills.

Stark naked trees lined the roadside, and the water in the drains ran over the now rotting multi-coloured leaves that lined them; what a waste of the artist's brush. The cattle yards were exceptionally boggy as I passed them, with something glistening in the ruts - the ice had not melted. A shadow passed over the land, as black clouds were amassing, and threatened rain, on the horizon. Where had they sneaked up from? My high-spirited walk was turning into drudgery, and this was my first day for this week.

The wind noticed my misery, and blew even colder from the direction of the snow-laden mountain residing in the south-eastern pocket of our province. On that spot that I stopped to look at the level of a risen creek, I began to curse those doctors, who made me do this thing called exercise. Oh, how, ‘I would dearly love to see them all joining me, or even taking my place, and experiencing, the cry of the wind. The thought would shake them to their foundations as they sit there, in their warmed officers, and handily placed coffee machines that included a hot chocolate or milo, together with their lattés,' I thought.

As I walked along to the next bend on this windy road, I passed a very old tree. Goodness knows how long it had withstood the ravages of time. The farm manager always shrugged his shoulders and said in a nonchalant voice.

"It's been there for as long as it has taken it to grow this big, from when it was but a seed; just like all the rest of the buggers. One day I'll cut them down for firewood."
  How deep this man of the land was. I always admired him for his practical down to earth way of thinking things through, and then saying exactly what he meant, with none of the flowery euphemisms of the outside-educated world. What a brilliant man. There were no hidden agendas, just the practical realism that pervaded his world. I had learnt to listen to him, for he knew far more about life in general that most people I know; but be warned never let him spin you a yarn about the old days. They were so amazing to hear it was hard to distinguish between myth and reality, although he swore that they were all true. Yeah, right.

The tree was a resting place, to many different species of bird during the day. Depending on what time you came by, there always seemed to be some birds resting in its branches. Sparrows, Kingfishers, Fantails, Finches, Wood Pigeon, Magpies, Wild Lorikeets, and on very rare occasions the hawks would stop off. Today a flock of sparrows has taken off just before I arrived. I tried to count them, but to no avail, because their ducking and diving flight patterns, were so crazy I got, mesmerised trying to keep up.

The long straights offered a view of the surrounding hills, now scarred by slips both small and some massive. Sheep and goats plus a few hardy cows were up in the upper reaches of the embankments, and sheltering beneath the trees. ‘They must be cold way up there,' I thought. When I stopped to observe them closed, I saw that they had chosen a sensible place to stand. The trees and bushes around then were not moving. ‘Cunning buggers,' I thought; laughed to myself, and then continued to walk.

The rain clouds had moved a little closer, and were getting darker in colour; do I move on or go back?  I decided to press on, as I was well over half way up to the barn that was just over a kilometre, from my house. More trees were broken along this next stretch of road. As I stopped this time, I observed the difference in their breaks. A couple were completely broken, near ground level, and another was splintered so that one of its branches went in two different directions, but was still joined to the tree, amazing.

Two more bends and I rounded the last and there it was, shelter. I checked my watch, not bad for an unfit person, like me. I'll not tell you how long it took, because I had made several stops on the way - to admire the scenery of course.

The creek next to the barn, was running considerably higher than its normal level, with many branches and debris intertwined, creating a small eddy running to the centre of the stream, and then disappearing, into the bubbling mass of brownish liquid. I used to wonder as a child how the Beavers of America, and Canada, began their work, the view in front, gave me some clue. The wind whistled down the gully between the hills and danced over the top of the barn roof. It again seemed to be talking to me. ‘Look around you and see what I have seen, and played with, and shaped in your countryside.'

I went around the other side of the barn, and was immediately hit in the face by the water being blown from the broken down pipes from the back end of the barn. The wind laughed at me; I did not laugh back. Swearing under my breath, I shook the water off my face and peered again. The sheltered trees on the lower slopes of the hillside were swaying gently back and forth, while on the skyline, those Gum and Pine trees were nearly snapping, under the continued pressure of the wind. Both appeared as awesome sights. I walked a little further past the barn, and saw that the rain clouds had veered off in another direction.

I could go no further on this walk, because to do so would mean that I would have to ford the risen stream that now curled back behind the barn, and so I turned back along the road that I had just walked.

A moment later, I was back at my house, I turned around, and wondered how I had arrived back so quickly, and the wind continued to cry over the hills and into the next valley. I wondered who else it would meet, and talk to. The wind comes constantly as a visitor, and you never know when it will turn up next.

Wow! This hot cup of milo tastes great.

© MCK 2008