Whirlwind.

I've written about windmills a few times. Here, here, and here. But I can't get enough, I'm obsessing. I love to stand beneath them, those steel pinwheels. I love to close my eyes and feel them twisting. Sometimes, I pretend my breath is deep blue so that I can see it escape. Escaping voices, escaping air. I like to imagine streams of it, floating away, intertwining with the canyon's breath, disintegrating against the ivory pillars. Methodical mending. Releasing city spores from spidery lungs. I wish that I lived closer, I wish that I could drive to the mouth of the canyon and watch the little blinking lights. Soothing, calming, easing. I wish that I could drive past the endless stretch of pavement, my eyes aching for the first glimpse of tiny white whirlwinds, cascading across snow banks and  anthill roads. I wish that I could pull the key. Listen, feel, Heal. But homes reside so far away. Creamy light is crawling through the open window, lathering sun on the naked walls. It's here, morning's here. I think I'll pour myself a second cup and drive. I'll drive to the spiral giants.