It’s the freedom and fluidity that I marvel.  Breezing through the wind as though it’s being led yet not knowing where it will land.  The backs and forths, the ups and downs pauses me to simply watch.  There is no way to stop its freedom but just observe where it will end without prediction, because I could surely be wrong.

Wilbur and Orville must have seen what I see but saw it technically when I just smile to myself wondering how this can be happening.  “Oh, there it goes sliding along the ground, now it’s over there instead of over there,” I say but then I say again, “Wow, up, up and away and now it’s way over my head.”

I wonder if I should run after it or perhaps wait for its return.  Or possible return?  The wind may guide it to a new place, a different place unknown to me but familiar to others.  I don’t want to see it leave me but the wind seems to have a mind all its own with quads and even four more between them.  Funny how we try to measure and weigh wind when it will wind and wind anywhere and everywhere it chooses.  It’s as if the wind says to us, “Go ahead and try to colorfill me on your television screens for your evening news for I will just fool you and move direction and I will not call the ‘Hot Tips Line'”.  So much for your TV’s “complete coverage” of covering what God controls.

We fly through the clouds in our travels to warm places or a grandmother’s funeral using the same wind as my friend.  We look out the safe airplane window and simply wonder at the majesty of that cloud that looks like our boss or that morning sun beginning to peek out new day.  We envy the freedom of flight, we envy the everything supposedly left behind and the nothing which lays ahead of us.  We are envious of my little friend that the wind has decided to return to my sight.

It slides again across the ground in a restless state.  I am not sure the wind is even in control now, it’s just too hard to tell.  Is it my friend of is it the nervous wind?  It seems to not know what will come next or where its next direction will take it but it continues to follow, perhaps without a will but still follows.  It opens itself up and the wind fills it once again and carries it to my far right and near left quicker than I can glance in either direction.

I smile and look at it wondering what the wind has in mind, if it even has a one.  I wonder what the end will be only because it soars so freely and openly throughout my vision.  Where will it land?  How can it land without hurting itself with this enveloping wind?

“There it is,” I say to myself.  The plastic bag is caught in a branch in this tree.  But is it caught or resting or residing?  It remains there every day I return to work.  Will it be there tomorrow?