May is a very early time in the year and the weather is usually bad. You cannot run a fast mile race if there is a strong wind, because it makes your running uneven.
There isn't a single windmill owner in Holland who doesn't have a second job, for when there is no wind.
Nature is my springboard. From her I get my initial impetus. I have tried to relate the visible drama of mountains, trees, and bleached fields with the fantasy of wind blowing and changing colors and forms.
I can feel the wind go by when I run. It feels good. It feels fast.
My own idea is that these things are as piffle before the wind.
I keep sailing on in this middle passage. I am sailing into the wind and the dark. But I am doing my best to keep my boat steady and my sails full.
Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play, Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away.
A Boston man is the east wind made flesh.
Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, and now that, and changes name as it changes direction.
I am a being of Heaven and Earth, of thunder and lightning, of rain and wind, of the galaxies.