Wind.

It is not my job to please another.

Nor yours for that matter.

In southern Arizona he wind is still blowing and my face is warm from the sun.

The grass moves with the horse’s mane shifting to and fro and the dog continues digging - head down in a hole, rear up. He is determined, this one.

Off to the east, a raven perches on a naked limb and when the horse moves off he dips down for water.

But the wind, the wind has its own voice. It is a clear and true language and as I write I leave one ear open.

In gentle tones: Here, sit for a while.

Then bold and harsh: I am done with you now. Please leave.

And somewhere in the middle there is indecision.

As if he does not know whether to keep me or not.