SOL March 29

The wind pulls my hair this way and that. The bay's breeze tickles me, wants me. There is moisture in the air. And the breeze
                                      is
                                          alive.
It wants to go into shops, it is pushing open doors. It wants to sit on a bench and watch the waves tickle the shore. There are sharp blasts pulling around a certain bench. It wants to eat sushi, and is pushing open the restaurant door. It wants to go into an antique shop, pulling the door open with a gust. It has decided to follow me around ticking my hair and making me go crazy. But then again, nothing that
                    is
                       alive
is perfect. The wind has pushed a baby bird out if it's nest. I see the newborn, no feathers on it's skin lying on the ground. It's guts are lying next to it in a pool of blood. I scream and run and put my face in my mom's arm. The wind
                                              is
                                                 alive.
It is taunting
screeching
crying
running
playing
laughing
straying
distracting
attacking
acknowledging

The wind, like any other

Is alive