It is late spring or early autumn, I cannot remember which. The window is open and the breeze, that breeze, is neither seen nor felt, but its effect is upon the sheer curtain that is slightly parted, hanging from a metal rod above the window.
It is my window, and I know that outside it are trees. They are pines, tall and taller evergreens. They are not old in tree time, perhaps barely older than I, but they have grown quickly and they are large. And they rise to such a height that they are capturing the wind above the breeze. I can hear the sound of the wind above and the breeze below and I can see the curtain billowing. And I know that it is out there beyond all of these things, that it is real and present, but it is beyond and I cannot see it.
I am listening to the call of it through the window, and it sounds like a cello.
It feels like longing, extended into an Adagio.
It is late spring and there are no windows. That same breeze is blowing through assorted trees along the streets, and their leaves are a kind of curtain, billowing with a certain rhythm. That same wind is above the taller trees, captured by them in moments. Here they are elms, and they are old, far older than I know and they are connected at root level to other trees and to the earth and to all of life beyond my sight. I see more now, and I can see more now, and if there were a window my eyes would reach through and touch it.
I am listening to the call of it, and it sounds like a cello.
It feels like joy, extending into an eternal Adagio . . .