The Startle

The wind runs headlong into the windows
of our architecturally unimportant office building
And when it does, it screams, like the whistles
of a thousand frothing red-faced football coaches.
It’s a bitter noise tinged with regret
Sounding out the disbelief that it has encountered
Such an obstacle in such a place
But armed with the firm conviction
that it will find its way around
It’s that conviction that makes it disturbing
And sends pin pricks to the neck
each winter night as the sun sets
but that howl and the unease become friends
two former enemies who gradually grow to need each other
and value the companionship.
So many hours in each day devoted to demystifying the mysterious
Pulling back the curtain on the wizard
Building unsinkable ships and towers that poke holes in the firmament
Gazing through time to find the very dust that we are created from
Yet why do we not eliminate the noises?
It seems we cannot bulletproof our institutional knowledge of the supernatural. We cannot escape the charge a banging door puts into our pulse or the shiver a cracking twig brings to our shoulders.
And though we can build buildings to protect us from the fiercest wind or the bitterest blizzard it’s as if our own architectural souls won’t let us render out the tallow of those last sounds.
There’s something in us that can’t bring ourselves to fully believe that it’s just a twig, just the wind, just the door.
We need the noise. The startle. The sharp sucking in of air into our uncertain lungs.
We need to quicken our steps, as I do tonight on the way to the parking lot, thinking that just maybe I can outrun whatever banshee is chasing me.