Bounced awake at 3 a.m. by feline urgency.
Pet-propelled, I follow the meowing fur-alert to the door.
But not our wind.
Not native to a northern clime.
This is a wind from the south, spiced with cinnamon and roses.
Santa Ana, the Witch’s Wind.
It reaches deep into our DNA.
Barefoot and pad-pawed, we walk into the primal.
The wind has claimed this night for the naked and the mad.
image:Night Wind from flickr.com
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