The Wind
From the breath of an autumn wind, groundless leaves rustled along a dark street. They raced past my feet and settled briefly along shallow gutters before being transported by a quick gust. The sound of movement was musical-- like the crash of waves along a rocky shore or the snapping of thick ice atop an empty lake.  I tried to sing along, but the same wind that moved the leaves filled my voice and silenced me. I tried to walk, but the same wind held me back. I tried to think anew, to believe again, but I was frozen in time.

I waited and waited, alone under the moonless sky, with nothing but abandoned homes along the emptied street. In weeks the old tar would be covered in a snow settled for the season-- melted only by a spring sun.

Sometimes, during the depth of a frozen night I would trundle through the street’s snowy drifts and ask for the appearance of a warming sun. But my feet would get cold and my skin would sting and I would take to an abandoned home and make a fire to become warm.

Those days were in the months to come. On this night I felt as groundless as the leaves, as powerful as an autumn wind. And for the first time I felt content that old tar would be my eternal home.