I love the rush of wind around my house, cocooning it for a moment in storm. I could make a hundred stories from it - the Hunter is sweeping his great net around, seeing what toothed shadows he can find; the Mother is exhaling stars. But really the wind is too familiar for that. It simply is itself.
Yesterday I went for a little while to a land of oak trees beneath a round green mountain. I almost never go to this place, and yet it too felt familiar. I walked a way I'd walked only once before, years ago, and it was if I'd walked it yesterday. I wonder what makes some lands like that and others endlessly fresh and intriguing. Perhaps the old heavy oaks were responsible for holding time slow and steady there. Perhaps it was the gravity of the mountain. I wanted to make a magical tale about my visit, but the land simply was itself.
Of course, if I lived there I would know its secret self-stories, its enchanted intimacies. In some places, the magic ... the rich beautiful magic ... is that it's home.
Same for the wind. Home of the heart of the wild, horn-eyed god.