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When the thunder scared him as a child, he asked his mother, Is God angry, Mama? No son, she told him. The angels are bowling.
He heard the sky’s rumbling as his eyes roamed the scene before him—street lamps looking like floating balls of light. Fluffs of snow fell on the dark pavement and, being too warm to stick, created a reflection for the light. He stared past the drops of water clinging to the window and, beyond the sound of a passing car, heard the wind—a slow, steady howl. It came closer until it consumed his concentration and he could feel its vibration run through him in echos.
The streetlights went out one by one, causing the white of the melting snow to appear even whiter. Alone with the sights and sounds, it occurred to him that quiet exists within the center of an atom. An atom of oxygen has eight protons and eight electrons. Perfect balance.
He knew that wind is the outgassing of light—chemicals and elements from a planet’s atmosphere moving into space—air rising to the warmth of the sun. Wind creates, destroys, sculpts.  Breath, breeze, gusts of life force, the wind distributes seeds that die and regrow. Breathless stillness returns to life.
Without a word, the Wind had entered and altered his state of reason. The clinging drops of water rolled down the glass—years passing, tears counted. Water. Renewing. Restoring. The Voice of silence had spoken into his being. In the center of quiet he was filled. Balanced. He listened and heard. God’s beauty.
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