Message of the wind

The dogs, encased in fur, didn’t feel the wind.
But they heard it. Smelled it.
We’re in the field, the newly bulldozed, barren launch pad for suburbia, and it is late.
The wind doesn’t gust. It is one big blow from the south.
It carries with it dense moisture from the south, where the Delta is. In the summer, we call it a Delta Breeze, and it helps cool turgid valley air that seems to hang on everything come August.
On this night, the coolness, the damp, cuts through the wind-stopper long-sleeve shirt, the blue jeans.
The dogs do not notice the cold.
But are somehow excited by it.
The 24 acres have but a few giant valley oaks left to stop the wind. The gale cuts through them as well, shaking the remainder of leaves long gone brown. Somehow, most of the leaves remain attached, while a steady stream of fallen leaves tumble across the dirt and over slippers and paws.
The girls stand motionless, heads toward the south. The wind blows their ears back.
They sniff.
They listen.
There is something in this wind. A message.
That maybe only dogs can hear.
Even though I long to hear it too.