Both humans and wild things learn early on that the wind is much more than the innocent sounding dictionary definition of the horizontal movement of atmospheric gases, in natural rhythms, across the surface of our Earth.

We know that both fishing and birdwatching are less fruitful on strong blustery days.  Plants and hairdos take a beating, as do shores and beaches from crashing waves. Someone once remarked that such weather is fit only for ducks, geese, gulls, and curmudgeons. Even sure-footed tree squirrels, in this season of searching out end-of-limb buds for food, are more skittish and more cautious with their footing. And we all own personal stories based on wind damage.

And during the strong winds we experienced during the past two weeks, both we and wild things mostly have done what my beloved late wife, Imogene, and I once did when hit by an unexpected NM summer monsoon season rainstorm while returning from a long hike to one of the outlier Anasazi pueblo ruins that is part of the Chaco Canyon National Historical Park.

Fortunately, we had just reached the south edge of the main canyon and were able to scramble down among the huge fallen rocks. Her poem, one of many hundreds accepted for publication during her career, ends with these honest words:

                     . . . . Hunkering under our hats

                     we withdrew into the rocks

                     and the safe parts of ourselves

                     that question little, but willingly

                     accept what we do not wish to

                     know, that like the land go blind and

                     dumb to wait out the blow.