Like a spy. Like a bird.
Like the Mount Wellington wind ripping through my tiny body.
Such frozen, fresh air.
The discomfort and the pleasure.
The insignificance of being. Here.
The wind has no time for comfort or pleasure.
I thought I was tough, muscular, strong, adventurous even.
A day in the wind ironically hurtles me back to earth.
Beaten again by the pull of gravity.
Tomorrow. The wind is gone. And dreams will fly.