This Moment: March 25 1:06 P.M.

The wind is thrusting its heavy body against the windows for entry. I have closed all eight tightly against its insistent shoulder. It blusters, howls, then throws handfuls of detritus upwards in a kind of reversed funnel cloud. Yet, a small current fingers its way into this room and quickly finds the back of my shoulders and neck to chill. The wind and I have had this arguement every March for the last decade. There is never a clear winner to our fight. Never. It always ends in impasse until the season changes and we forget each other again. Forget until winter exhales and the next onslaught of new breath blows through the valley.