Blowing

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Up to 50 knots, I'm told.
Wind advisories. Radio stations making sure I worry.
My mind sees whitecaps roaring over black bay waters.
Hoping seafarers are safely tucked away in home harbors.

The maps of wind and clouds swirl over our planet appearing as geometric cloud cover, turning this way and that, hurricane twirls stamped steadily on blue, evenly displaying wind when wind is invisible.

This one strip goes westward, the next row east.
Like currents in the ocean, a misty pattern appears as if fog of our valley was drifting in from the shore nearby, drifting always east, rarely off shore. Links of white chain twists cover our blue ball.

The off shore winds, the Santa Ana, hot from the south, come with destruction occasionally, the wrong way blowing, confusing our temperate zone. Do birds work new muscles? Fighting to their roosts? This house stands in the way, taking a beating from a new direction. The ravaged walls, losing paint, facing west take a break, while the eastern brace bravely.

See the patterned windy belts lying neatly on this latitude following this direction then that on Hubble's camera viewfinder? Geometrically, even and steady?

Back and forth like currents of sea water taking sealife to krill and floating islands of weed and schools of tiny fish.

The sameness carries on as the atomic clock ticking will do; squeaking, emerging from old speakers of decade-aged ham radios. Called boat anchors, because they are so heavy with their tubes and capacitors and steel covers. Their radio waves reaching out, searching for magnetic paths in the air. Are they even like currents or crazy like sunspots? Like x-rays shooting from our star, through the sky and out through our very bones?

Signals blow above hearing or below. Hearers ears turned towards sound unseen. Will antennas help steer the screeching universal time signal, blunt beeping; tuning the boat anchor? How is tuning even possible. Radio men with the patience of a strong Santa Ana wind. Blowing steady for a time.

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