Passage of the Night Wind

This is a short piece, only about 385 words, in contrast with anything else I have written in a long time. This is the 2.5th draft [yes >.<] and while I very much like some of it, it did stem from another piece I began to write and so in making it it's own, it seems a little disjointed to me, particularly at the beginning and at various points throughout. So, suggestions? Also take note I wrote this in the night hours, so it could easily be terrible. Feel free to tell me, anonymously if you so will.

27/07/09 - an edited version, turned into poetry, (not the poem version later posted on this blog) of this has just been shortlisted finalist in the Adelaide Young Writers Awards. I'm very happy with that. :)

The wind wafts, gentle, caressing, but firmly chilling, an unwitting reminder to those hapless, earth-bound creatures of her uncaring nature. She may, briefly, take a fondness to a thing, a being, a place,but she is as fickle as any of the gods of old.

She knows nothing of feelings. Emotions are as pretty trinkets to her, and she carries them away with her effortlessly, without the burden they bring humans. Trite dealings of mankind - what are they to her? She holds no interest in these matters, weaving throughout and about monumental occasions with a laugh, light as the tinkling of bells, felt more than heard. [more felt than heard?]

A thing of beauty, that sound, but with a harsh edge, the cold steel of a blade gleaming as it is drawn from its sheath, glinting/glimmering with bloodlust. She is none the less beautiful for this hint at terror, for, after all, true beauty in all its unbridled intensity can only strike some nameless fear into those, its beholders. Lucky or luckless? One is hard-pressed to say.

She glides swiftly at times, at others roaring in brutal, reckless force across the oceans, all untethered might, but despite this, there remains still an undeniable femininity about her. Those aggrieved, having fallen prey to a woman's wits, perhaps betrayed and slighted, bitter lovers, may sullenly tell that she consumates that female trait of cruel, calculated manipulation, bending others to her will on nothing more than a whim. Yet such a notion being brought to her attention would receive no more than a passing disdain; human thoughts and ideals, meaningless.

She has reached the distant stars, skimmed the rippling ink waves, coiffed the ash clouds; she has danced in the shadows and the darkest of nights. Amongst the treacherous rocks, leaping with the salt spray, she has leant her voice to the sirens' song, alluring, bewitching, deadly.

She has no need of humility, no need for pride. She does not boast - jealousy is a concept of no bearing or use for her. She simply knows all that she is and embraces it. Nothing more is necessary.

She hurtles on and breathes through each new terrain in turn, uncaringly, unceasingly. For so has she, the night wind, done for all time, and so she shall until its end.