Wind

It blows, almost constantly. And we’re in love with it. The moderate Trades scud cloud skeins across the skies while down at ground level these winds bluster the flocks of sanguinivorous mosquitos that would otherwise pester us for belly bloating drops of our blood. During the high daylight hours, we open the windows at one end of the house and slide wide the glass doors at the other, and in sweeps the wind, sufficiently chill that we off the AC. And when the velocity rises, by Beaufort!, to Fresh, the palms drop the pretense of susurrate whispers and percussively call – shake, rattle, & roll – through the house; if even, then any citronella candles on the table out back gutter and quit, while the oil-fed torches flash, duck, and fight to stay lit, dancing a rollick of shadows and light as they fight the stiffening wind gusts and lash back during the lulls.

We’re not the only ones catching these breezes. Overhead are the Wara Waras and the Magnificent Frigates, awaft on the thermals, stilling or stirring. And down by the shore sing the sirens that can merely been seen and not heard, spinning, from the prime byway, the Weg Naar Westpunt. The giant wind turbines harness the breeze, their blades hissing and crying as they slice into this island air, crafting alternate powers.