It’s cold again. The latter part of fall when the wind whispers to us promises of Winter. The scent of weather reminds me of old places, old friends; old peculiar past times particularly of the bitter bite of the Northwest rain seasons. Between August and November you would see the smiling sun fade from the creases of strangers mouths as they turn downward, chin to chest, to fend off the breeze. As umbrellas were the likely mark of a tourist, we natives bowed our heads and tucked our hands deeply in sodden pockets; smiles or no smiles, no one wanted to be less homely. Most of us were carving our way into seasonal depression regardless of plastic protection and as the breeze brought in the cold the warmth in our hearts fled fluttering like migrating birds. My friends and I would drown our weather woes into $9 cocktails and clove cigarettes while 80s music pounded the particular days demises away. And this is what the wind speaks to me on evenings wet and dreary no matter the location.
The poetry and photograph is copywrited as my own.