Swirling

One day, I remembered Amstendam and thought about the wind.

First, there was a canal. Dark brown, still water, curved into combed wakes as boats pass, flags as brave as happy dogs' tails. How can a city be so quiet? Trams slip by, bicycles wheel almost silently. You walk, down the brick-lined tree enfolded canalsides, up over the slightly humped bridges, pushing through the stream of air; it curves into combed wakes as you pass. We all create a wind as we walk. Is this, then, a wind, an air story?

A boy pulls his bike down the stoop, its tire bouncing on the pavement. He props it against the railing as he shrugs on his backpack, then mounts and is off in one continuous, dancelike movement. The wind ruffles his hair as he rides, pushing it off his forehead, mild May wind, roiling behind him in the wake of his passing.

The winds of all our passings are roiling memories. Where there are many automobiles, the winds become a hurricane, too fast, screaming by, scouring out our thoughts instead of nourishing them. The winds of our passing when we are not involved in it, when we are not walking or pumping pedals or pulling oars, those winds blow too furiously for us to keep up. But silly humans, we think we can.

Fran is here

Still in Portland. I'm combining all my various blogs into one. So no, there isn't a theme here. I'll throw it all together--creative writing, food, living day to day.