After work, I walked out the door
and was nearly blown away by the force of the wind.
Not just any wind, a determined wind, one soaked with misty rain.
One of those famous March winds that whips everything around
for its own amusement: bending umbrellas, pulling off scarves,
throwing car doors open with force.
But in the dry, warm car I am less annoyed with the rainy wind
and more mesmerized by it.
It blows straight across the flat landscape,
unafraid to engage everything in its path.
The March Wind by Robert Henri
Then I watch it tap out a kind of rainy Morse code on my windows.
Across the windshield, it blows dashes of rain.
Against the driver's window, dots and dots and dots of clear rain.
Perhaps a message is in there somewhere.
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