High-pitched rustlings. Low rumblings. The rise and fall of light breezes that suddenly surge aggressively. Shrubbery bending to unnatural angles. The sky: bright blue to the north and smoky-gray to the south. A setting sun. Whitecaps. Sand stirred in shallow waters creating milky latte hues. Standing with my eyes closed and arms wide, letting the wind move me as it wishes. My red mane shooting out behind me and then enclosing my face. No words can do justice to my feelings of delight and thrill that come with a good windstorm.
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