Thoughts of spring on a windy day

It is another windy day here on the edges of the Puget Sound, the kind of day that makes one all the more desperate for spring.This wind is the kind that roars and whistles around the corners of my little house, like an invisible ocean threatening to shipwreck our earthbound vessels.It rattles down the stovepipe, swings the power lines, and ripples across the grass in waves as if the lawn were a small green sea. Birds struggle vainly to fly in a straight line, and all sorts of debris skitters down the street and gets tossed in the air. Cords clatter noisily against poles as their flags flutter madly, and wind chimes shout discordant songs from porches.This wind is a reminder that its fierce wintry cousins recently disfigured trees, tearing off large branches and leaving them lopsided and forlorn, churned up the waters of the bay, and left people groping about in the dark for candles, canned soup, and warm sweaters as they prepared to survive the coming hours without electricity.
Is this the last hurrah, a fight by winter to grip us as long as possible? Does this wind herald more bitter winds to come, more colorless clouds, more rain to fall on the downhearted? Or is it spending itself in final throes against the inevitable coming of spring? Already the daffodils are peeking out, and the cherry trees optimistically brightening the gray days with pink and white. I can not help but dream of the warm winds to come, the welcoming breezes of spring that hasten towards summer, bringing with them us creatures so long exiled to our indoor fortresses.I look forward to those warm winds carrying the scents of freshly turned earth, the saltiness of the sea, and other nameless pleasures; I long to run in the face of those winds, breathe their freshness, feel their caress on my face, and let their playful fingers tease my hair. I long to hear the simple symphonies of crickets, frogs, trilling blackbirds, the muted hums of conversations floating from kitchens, gardens, and living rooms. Running, running towards the forests, running towards the sea, running as if there were no world awaiting my return, I would let this wind sing for me "Awake, oh my soul! I will awake the dawn..." I would watch the sailboats dotting the bay, the gulls floating effortlessly in a cheerful blue sky, and the sunshine would dare me to dream, think, float away from the present moment.
I have brought back to staid civilization these impressions, these wordless voices of nature, and kept them in memory to feed my soul during these times of darkness, of waiting for sun. But for now, the clouds are driven relentlessly onward, on to distant places. The stinging rain falls, stirs life in hidden places of the earth, and runs through gutters, ditches, and rivers on its way back to sea and sky. Such a metaphor for life, the weather and seasons are; mirrors reflecting the inward struggles and joys of humankind with timeless storytelling.
We are not so separate from the natural world and our Creator as we may think!