The wind blows… down the street, through the tiny red leaves of a maple tree, pounding against the pane of glass at the end of Burwood Dr. In the driveway of 356 Burwood, I lay facedown, cold and still. The wind caresses my wavy brown hair, moving it like a tender lover’s hand, but I do not respond, I am cold and still. The wind does not cry with my mortal absence. It plays with the edge of my skirt and hardens the line of blood dripping from my mouth, turning it from red to crusted brown. The wind does not cry. The rain does not despair when it sees my vacant eyes and pale blue lips. The drizzle of raindrops vibrates against my skin, but I feel nothing. The cold does not give me goose bumps, the wind does not send my teeth chattering. The rain pours and washes the blood from my mouth. They play upon me, but they do not cry. They will not rejoice, they will not sing, they will not scream. The ants will traverse my curves, I am a new mountain to climb. Soon, the vultures will come, they have found another meal. But there will be no party and no time of mourning. Nature is neutral, a kaleidoscope of forces that move softly, that move violently, that kills and breeds and explodes into delicate layers and intricate snowflakes.
The wonderful tree we all enjoyed for its shade and regal branches and sculpted movement, it was torn down by the wind, fifty years of growth destroyed in a single stormy night. And the leaves crackled when the sun came out and we despaired that our beloved tree was gone, but the squirrels were not sad and the stray cats did not worry and the broken boughs did not laugh.
When the jasmine bush toppled under its own weight and the wind coming from the sea, I worried about the little birds that once played in its hidden chambers, would they think we destroyed their home? I regretted sawing through green vines and white flowers to clear the path, but the plant did not mourn its transformation. It grew and moved and toppled in neutrality.
Birth, death, rebirth, death. There is no intention behind it all, no malice, no pleasure. The wind simply moves. It is a force without emotion. It takes down houses and trees and telephone poles without revenge or care. It moves. Rains descend freely from thick gray clouds, giving no thought to inconvenience or floods. It comes without associations. The rain will not win any bets if we live, it cares not for our thirst or if we make lemonade. It comes from a cloud, moves down a river, down the mountain and to the reservoir, to the tap, to the pitcher, through my body and then out again, down the toilet, to the sea. It frets not for its voyage or transformation, moving from one location to another. The droplet is not tinged with salt, not a trace of sadness colors its orb while the blood is cleansed from my mouth.
In creation, there is no good or bad, these are invented words, invented perception.
There only IS.
Fire, water, life, hunger, destruction, it moves, it comes and goes and it all comes from a neutral place, neither hoping for our survival or vying for our defeat.
I lay still and cold.