Whoosh. A roaring biting rush of wind. A gentle dull whistle. Hissing, coiling around your ears.
The air sounds.
Rushing, never reaching its destination, but never pausing to question. Pushed in every direction, twirling and dancing with leaves and snow, playing with silent giggles before moving on, ever with the promise of return.
It caresses, cold teeth nipping at your face, hot claws dragging out the life-fluid of your body. Roaring like an angry god as it pulls and twists, battering with its fists, furious when you don’t fall. Wailing in sorrow when you do.
The air goes.
It fills your lungs, expands them with its gift of life. A gentle breeze when required, caressing your skin like a lover, calming waters and spreading pollen. It carries the end of the green, leaves falling dutifully without fear. It tickles, plays with your hair, swipes your hat, and tugs without malice at your clothes.
The air gives.
The air, the glorious oxygen we breath, that gives us life, can just as easily be so cruel. It can steal itself from our lungs, replacing it with the dust it kicked up in its wild frenzy. Switching between an oppressive heat, and frigid needles piercing through your pitiful armor of cloth.
It is a thundering storm of sound; roaring in you ears until it is all you can hear. A swirling mass of energy that spins so fast and terrible to tears the earth apart, ripping up trees and homes without a care for what it does and does not leave behind. It turns the spaces between the whipping snowfall to ice, leaving you dizzy and breathless. Without hope as your vision fades to black.