Something I don’t think I ever experienced before moving here, and only on rare occasions since: On a still day, you can sometimes hear the wind coming long before it reaches you.
I was outside this afternoon, briefly—deadlines—and I heard a distant rushing noise. It was not dissimilar to the sound a subway train makes as it’s approaching the station, but a little higher pitched. After a few seconds I realized what it was. I froze and waited.
Soon I saw branches quaking, leaves scuttering, grass bending over. Then it reached me, a gentle breeze at first, building, building. Finally it was a full-on gust, picking at my clothes, fluttering my hair.
It didn’t last long. I went inside. When I went out again five minutes later the day was still again.
But that wind blew up from the south, ignoring the international border, scooping through the valleys and sliding over the hills, and then it caressed me and carried my scent on northward, no doubt to confuse and aggravate up-valley dogs who would sniff me out on the breeze but not be able to find me.