Some of the noises have been truly startling—the thuds and thunks and clanks as patio furniture, garbage cans, and who knows what else have tipped over and gone flying. The morning started out clear and still, but the forecast 60 mile per hour winds arrived at about noon. When I sat down to lunch I could see the Sandia Mountains 10 miles away; by the time I'd finished eating, they were hidden by blowing dust, and they haven't re-emerged since.
|This morning's sunrise—you can see the Sandias between the houses.|
|No mountains—even the sky is gray with dust.|
|A photo experiment that didn't work, but it sure was windy.|
All of these plants are able to yield while maintaining their individuality; they don't struggle with the wind or resist it, and yet their own strengths and quirks and characteristics still shine through. They yield with such grace, and yet they yield nothing of themselves. They are not flattened, like the plants with insufficient strength, or shredded, like the tender, broad-leaved aliens, or broken, like the brittle ornamentals. They have not simply hunkered down to endure a bad situation, like the sturdy boxwoods. They have adapted; flexibility is in their nature. The wind moves through them rather than against them.
Paradoxically, it is because they yield to the wind that they can also hold their own with it.