Zephyr’s Bloom
by Kari Storey, faculty
She sits.
Knees bent, back straight, eyes closed, chin up.
She sits.
She waits. The heat of the rock seeps into her skin. The whisper of the river’s spray is no match.
It will come soon. It’s different than the coast; she has to wait here. Waiting is not her preference.
As the sun begins to kiss the mountain, the trees begin to quiver and the rumble begins.
There is a giggle next to her. “It’s coming, mama,” his whisper matches the tone of the rumble.
She sits.
Knees bent, back straight, eyes closed, chin up.
He tries to emulate her. He sits. Knees bent, back straight, chin up, eyes wide open.
He watches the trees begin to bow and the river roar down the rocks, making their mark.
He sits.
“Connect with the rock. Listen to the right now, not for what’s next,” she coaches both of them.
The rumble gets louder.
And then it is here.
They sit. They are still except for the goosebumps that undulate over their skin, their hair that whips their back, and their chests that rise in revelation. They breathe in the rumble as it snakes its way down the canyon. Trespassing the foothills in its journey to nowhere. Science could explain its parturition, a change in temperature however did not encapsulate the enchantment.
At the coast, the wind is omnipresent. Here, they must seek her and they must wait. When they moved here, she missed the wind the most. The wind reminded her of influence and potential beyond her control; it reminded her to take things moment by moment. Now it cooled her; it brought comfort in chaos; it brought euphoria mixed with melancholy.
“We found it!” the smile can be heard in his elation.
No, she found us.
From a zephyr to gale, she bloomed and cultivated our own rooting home.
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