“Wooooo, ooo,oo,oo,oooo…..Wooooo, ooo, oo,oo,oooo…,The wind is the whisper of our mother, the Earth…The wind is the hand of our father, the sky…….”

This  song came to mind as my friend and I were struggling to walk our dogs this morning in Little Antelope Valley.  I am an unapologetic fan of  the late John Denver. I have always loved his music and the melodious way in which he melded words and musical notes into poetry that will forever speak to the wild places in my heart.

HOWEVER…….I don’t think Mr. Denver had ever been properly introduced to a Sierra mountain zephyr before he penned the words to the lovely ballad that is the title of this particular posting. “Whisper” describes the wind today about as accurately as “sleeping kitten” describes “mountain lion disemboweling deer.”

If our dogs had been any more lightweight than two, solidly built, chunks of Pugs (25 lb. bowling balls with hair),  a 90 lb. Chow cross, and an aerodynamic Doberman that cleaved the wind with her nose, we would have been looking for them around Topaz Lake after the first onslaught of “whispering.”  Smaller dogs would’ve been toast, or at the very least, furry little kites at the end of leashes, had they been lucky enough to have been tethered to something at all.  Small children, too, would have needed a couple of bricks around their ankles to prevent wind driven “toddler tumblings.”

“The Wind is the hand of our father the sky……” And that hand slapped the snot out of everything with which it came into contact this morning, including our intrepid little group,  peppering us with pellets of sand and rock. And, it  continues to do so, adding a few nasty kicks and punches for good measure.  No melody to this beating we’re currently experiencing,  unless the sound of crashing branches, tumbling roof shakes and wind flung sand, garbage cans and small cars is considered a musical montage. We are getting soundly spanked by father sky’s hand, at the moment.

“The Wind is the goddess who first learned to fly….” and she is flying forty gate over the ridges, down the canyons, and across the flats like a bullet train.  No gentle, meandering breeze, this goddess. She is the proverbial “screamin’ banshee,” on a mission.  Another friend was going skiing today because, “the devil made [her] buy new ski boots….!” She isn’t very big. I hope she’s wearing bright colors so she can be easily tracked as she windmills across Tahoe on the “wind goddess” express.  Maybe I should have mentioned the “bricks around the ankles” to her earlier. Be sure and let someone know when you make landfall, Jeanne.

“In your heart and your spirit, let the breezes surround you, lift up your voice then, and sing with the wind……”  Keep your mouth shut;  you open it, it’ll be snatched so dry, you won’t be able to spit for a week. Lord knows what’ll happen with your tongue.

“…….the wind brings the smell of freshly mown hay…” Thank God there is no “mown hay.”  It would be arriving in Saskatchewan first thing tomorrow morning.  As it is, I’m worried about flying bales of hay, maybe with an animal or two attached. I have seen this particular “goddess” lift a stack of 24 count drywall straight up, and deposit most of it on a roof, 18 feet off the ground. So, truly, watch for those bales of hay.   And, perhaps my friend. She may, or may not, still be attached to her skis.

If John Denver was still living, he may have gotten around to writing something about “canyon gales,” or “cats in the breeze,” (two of mine haven’t shown up today, which is why I mention them now; check out any hay bales that land in your vicinity, please. One is an intact, male tabby; the other, a fluffy, little, grey female), or maybe he could have arranged a song about “Heavenly skiers,” or those heading in that general direction on the flanks of his “Windsong.”   Better still, I would have loved for him to compose a song about our Coleville  “scout” buzzards, who, I’ll just bet, are wishing right now that they had that Capistrano gig goin’ on!