Tim and the Walk Home:

Tim stands as still as he can
while an exceptionally long gust
of late February wind
tries insistently to slide him
shoes skidding along the sidewalk
back towards the school

his hair flailing madly in the torrent
Tim turns his face to the side
holding his breath as long as he can
unable to breath, anyway
as the air rushes past his mouth
and his nose
so quickly that he is unable to pull
any stray molecules into his lungs

Tim wonders briefly
if this is what death is like
only to be immediately interrupted
by assorted debris pummeling his face
tiny bits of dirt, twigs, and months old leaves
assaulting him
launched as though by nature's own blunderbuss

Tim pushes one foot forward
his leg forcing its way through the wind
like the hull of an icebreaker
cutting a path through ancient sea ice

as Tim picks up his trailing foot
to take another step
the wind almost gets the better
of his balance
Tim, caught off guard, finds himself
absorbed in this moment

his attention, fully committed to the wind
and his empty lungs
and the leaves
and the twigs
and the dirt
and his foot
and, with his last ounce of attention
his balance

in this moment
while Tim's six year old faculties
are unable to satisfy the full demand
that has been placed upon them

Tim finds himself

stealing breath from the wind hurrying past him
pressing forward into an unseen tide
willing his body not to yield to his barometric foe

the residual of reality
discarded by his, momentary
inattention

in this moment
Tim finds himself

resisting a chaos he cannot understand

and, then, as his foot reunites with the ground
Tim think-mutters something to himself
about the wind
with the exact sort of distain
that only a six year old can muster

and he finishes walking home
his hair still flailing madly