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"Curtains turn frantic whenever someone slides open the door again."

The wind in "Sou' Dakoda" is nobody's friend and everyone's near constant companion. The Muse insists that it doesn't so much blow as suck, nothing standing in its way from Northern Saskatchewan, Western Wyoming, or the Gulf of Freaking Mexico. It rarely sucks west. A still day hardly ever visits and never comes anywhere near to wearing out its welcome when it does, leaving with the familiar groaning weather vane in the night. The ground's usually firmly enough tacked down to prevent blinding dust, but a fine gritty film seeps in around every window's trim. The porch feels like sandpaper underfoot. Wind turbines spin effortlessly, endlessly.

The Schooner nudges along, goosed or rudely shoved aside. Verges ripple like shimmering grease as the sidewind screams through the grasses there.
The mighty Missouri—a string of lakes, really—shows nearly non-stop white caps. One holds down their picnic potato chips with a thumb or chases them across the park. Tablecloths enthusiastically flap like patriotic flags, sending even untethered fried chicken flying. Frisbees fly funny here.

My ears cannot hear above the whistle. My collars slap my cheeks like playing cards clothes-pinned into bike spokes. Clouds race each other west to east, north to south, as if whipped across the sky. The garden bows beneath the force, flowers kneeling and standing in frantic grace. Snow rarely falls without drifting. Rain falls sideways. Trees learn penitence from constant pushing, learning to bend toward the lee, never standing straight up and down. Sundown seems like someone blew out the candle. Sunrise comes after an overnight shoving match forcing daylight back out on the stage.

Porch railings rattle like a pneumatic xylophone, always the same familiar tune. Kites fly all by themselves. Clothes are dry before you finish hanging them on the line. Tumbleweeds chase each other in season in a Monte Carlo competition, collecting in some spaces ten feet high, winners trapped in fences and shelter belts. Prairie farmers plant rings of trees around their places, barricades against the incessant winds. Cars seem to drive slightly sideways, diagonally down the road. Woe to anyone pulling a high profile trailer, for it will insist upon dancing the watusi or the twist. They seem to hardly miss you on narrow bridges and roads.

On the sweeter summer days, the wind envelops you, hugging and caressing as if reassuring. It seems to want to confirm its presence by confirming yours. Pant cuffs flap and sleeves sort of rattle on your sleeves. Your chair groans involuntarily as the wind insistently elbows your body aside. A Touchless® Car Wash of a massage soothes out sore muscles. Hairdos surrender. Whatever stink might have been stuck to you whistles away through the trees. Barn swallows defy the gale, swooping to impale flies and mosquitos rendered helpless flotsam on the wind. The porch furniture migrates downwind. Curtains turn frantic whenever someone slides open the door again.

©2018 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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