Waiting for the wind to come

You stand there, in a wide open field, darkness is your ally, small patches of moon light filtering through the clouds illuminating the tall grass a shade of yellow. The wind howls, you can hear it in the distance. But it is not yet here. You can see the stalks bend under its force, forming paths, inviting you in, into a labyrinth that leads nowhere. But the wind is not yet here. You stare at the void in front, motionless, thoughts blank. It's the way it's ought to be. Just you and existence, stripped bare down to the minimums. And then you feel the cold blow on your cheek, enveloping your forehead, with a whoosh increasing in pitch, it stretches your clothing like the sails of a boat. The wind has arrived.