the wind

It can be wrathful, gathering itself into broiling black thunderheads and then bursting outwards furiously, exploding across the ground, shattering glass, dismembering trees, crushing bus stops and cars with debris. Sometimes just a single burst, like an unexpected slap in the face. It can equalize without discrimination. It doesn’t care what color you are, your age or prestige, it picks up handfuls of dirt and throws it in your face without fear or favor. We all turn our heads and shield our faces the same way. Cheekily, it will slam your door, smack you with your own tie, clear your desk of papers. Driver of the rain, conductor of the leaves, it pushes and demands and reorganizes, never satisfied, always perfecting. It’s the dramatic effect, the catalyst, nature’s drumroll. The trees ruffle their green feathers and dance like skittish horses. Long grass bends to take cover and plants sway back and forth, searching the sky. The constant movement brings an unsettling, though not unpleasant feeling that keeps you waiting and anticipating like everything around you. It is the physical manifestation of change, born out of difference, seeking balance while spreading disorder.

Editor's Note: When I read Mark's piece, I immediately thought of this. drink it in.

Mark Adams continues to appreciate Zambia.