Breathing In A Night’s Breeze

The magic of an evening, in my mind, is almost always at the mercy of its breeze. It can only be as good as the flow of air that is blowing through it.

That daytime breeze? As perfectly timed as it was out on the water, or on the golf course or along the beach? It can’t hold a candle to the same breeze after the sun goes down. No pun intended there.

It’s just how it is.

Wind weaving through clusters of leaves as a tree slowing gives to one side is exponentially more soothing under a cover of darkness than in late afternoon. No matter the temperature.

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A Flagstaff breeze.

Maybe I’m alone in this, and that’s okay. But it’s something I noticed the other night, after spending nearly three years straight sitting on my deck after dark. The magic is in the breeze.

I’m talking about ordinary nights. Ordinary moments. This whole theory excludes proposals and weddings and big life moments where a breeze is completely insignificant – but could be an added, romantic bonus I suppose.

For me, though, the magic is also in the conversation, because I can’t get enough of the talks Ron and I have. But as for the soundtrack, we always pause when we hear a breeze coming through. It’s like we have to breathe through it or something.

The breeze is the universe’s mute button, I suppose.

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An island breeze.

It ruffles the fur on the dogs’ backs as they stand guard along the perimeter of the deck. It swirls around collections of leaves that decide to fall at the least convenient time in Arizona, during the hottest months of summer.

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A deck breeze.

It creates new shadows on the ground as street lights filter through moving foliage and it plays with your hair, even inspiring goosebumps at times.

All of that can happen during the day, too. But at night, at least for me, is when we can absorb it. And appreciate it. And let it glaze over a day that was busy or exciting or exhausting or inspiring.

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A wilderness breeze.

A night breeze is like a secret from the atmosphere, giving me pause to remember life is more than keyboards and deadlines and spellcheck and errands and childhood arguments that will never be remembered.

It’s the day’s dessert, I guess. Without the guilt.