The whiffet in the Northeast woods had been child’s play, so the wind turned its attention elsewhere. There were oceans to foment, deserts to sculpt into gentle waves, mountain snows to whip into frothy drifts.
A power—that’s what the wind was, and proud of it. The Greeks named not just one, but two, wind Gods: Aeolus, ruler of all, and Boreas, the north wind, a feisty bastard.
Lurking high in the atmosphere, the wind looked down and surveyed the rolling orb. Aeolus and Boreas—those names meant nothing. The Greeks could keep their puny boys. The wind had so many other names. When it was in a gentle mood it was Waft, or Rustle. When it worked its way under a door on in through a window, Draft or Chill. In winter it was Blast and Blow. In spring, Breeze and Zephyr. When it chose to storm it became Gust, then Gale, then Cyclone, then Monsoon, building to Typhoon. It loved the sound of that one: Ty-phoooooon. When it blew hot it was Sirocco, Leveche, Santa Ana, Chinook. When it turned cold it was called Bise, Mistral, Tramontona, and the one that moved like a freight train, The Montreal Express.
If things got boring in one place, there was always somewhere else to go. That was why the wind had headed west. For a change of scenery. But that morning, by the time it zigzagged coast to coast, it was tuckered out. It chose to rest, to take a little downtime to nap high above the Pacific, to let the sun shine undisturbed on California.