From clutter to the Kaweka's

The wind is withstood here though largely unnoticed by its locals. An unwavering presence keeps the unwanted thoughts away, though all thought is sacrificed. There is always a hum, a whirl, or a task here. 

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The wind is planned here. We wait for it with anxious ears, and pray for a favourable direction. Days are not measured in productivity, but only by the ace of ones feet. The air is lighter like silk here, where before it was a congealed fat. The light is cleaner here, more white than gold. Perhaps because I am closer to its source? The concrete I knew has been replaced with dew-laden grass, it is far prettier though irritating to the touch. 

There is no hum but that of the bush fly. 

I am here with a presence though his speech is far from unwavering, more a rarity. I wonder if everyone feels the cleanness here as I do, though no bath has been run. I wonder if everyone feels the lifting of the veil in this land? If they finally hear their own voice, for better of worse. I wonder if everyone feels free here? As I do.