On these windy days, in between raindrops, I go out in the backyard and throw Ozzie’s favorite squeaky football. The rushing of the air and creaking of the trees are only some of the sounds you can hear above his toy. My neighbor has wind chimes that play a very melancholy tune. They make me think another windy day when I buried my dog Buster beneath the lilac. He is now joined by several cats, some parakeets and a goldfish.
There is a huge maple in that corner of the yard. In the winter, the branches crackle against each other when the wind blows. In the summer, the leaves shimmer and swoosh. The wind chimes play the same tune whatever the season. I close my eyes let the sounds lift me up.
The song of the chimes, the swoosh of the maple and the lonely sound of the fir trees have become a part of me. Chocolatey smell of fresh baked cookies from the Nabisco plant, the train whistling on Lombard; these are the sensations that wind brings me in my backyard in Woodlawn.
When I grew up in Lake Zurich, Illinois we didn’t have many trees. Ours was a new development with three kinds of houses. Door on the left, door on the right and door in the middle. The only trees were planted after I was born. They grew as I grew. There was no sound of trees around our house. Only, a lonely prairie-like wind that in the spring brought tornadoes. We didn’t have a lot of birds because of the blankness of the landscape.
I could write a poem about a tree, but it’s been done. I am glad I have some and I have my own portion of the sky and wind and the music they all make.