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“To live is to move,” he whispers and the words arrive at her ears from several directions, as if each syllable was borne by its own current of air. “And nothing moves with the freedom of wind. And no wind moves with so much force as that of the storm.” He looks at her as they stand suspended in the wind well above the roof of the tavern where they had first exchanged names. The clouds have opened and a heavy rain begins to fall. He smiles into her eyes, his face displaying genuine delight at the massing of thunderheads in the distance. The intensity in his voice increases with the force of the winds, “And life is lived fully when it is lived with one’s face to the storm.”
They move, then, walking, if that is the proper word, within the wind itself. His movements flow into those of the wind with a relaxed gracefulness. “There is no controlling the wind,” he whispers, “one is embraced by its swiftness and moves.” The swiftness of the wind carries them to a rocky outcropping in the hills beneath the massing storm clouds.
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