I rarely am outraged at the cold. It is merely the passive absence of heat. But wind… Wind is alive, vicious, intentional, malevolent. It seeks me out, and having found me aims cruelly for the rift between collar and neck, cap and ears. It bites. And so in this calm but cold morning on Goose Creek, I’m remembering the thought from years ago that, maybe if I wrote about the wind, we could make our peace. I can’t say that this reconciliation has happened, …

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