I remember a moment escalated in intensity by the dawning of a revelation, a moment transcendent into mythical experience, and frozen as such within the mind of young boy.
A tree, thin like an engorged stick, was waving violently, back and forth, back and forth, in the howl of a Gaelic-speaking storm. The wind was hands and fingers, pressing and stroking, exploratory, penetrating. Uneven drafts of rain were flung upon recoiling skin, in intermittent and unpredicted patterns. The world seemed to be searching for a means of expressing something horrible.
There was a man standing atop stone steps, calling to the wind. His pleas fell back down his throat and washed out through his eyes, never to be heard.
Thunder quaked at last, the voice of some awful deity promising justice. I knew then, as I have ever known, that death was upon us all.
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