A Fey Wind Called

A fey wind called to me and I could not help but answer.

I followed to where it led and climbed a lowly peak.
There the wind and I gamboled, roughhoused, and danced.

I was lifted from my feet and carried to the cliff's edge.
The wind held me upright as I relaxed into its embrace, then with a sudden push, I was sent running across the rocks.
Higher I climbed to brace my feet against a rock and face the wind.

And the game continued, a constant pushing, then a sudden stillness, followed by a shove.
I twisted and turned, balanced and jumped, ducked and leaned.
I would fly, had I wings.
I was tempted, yearned, to try.  

The wild, fey wind pushed and pulled and suddenly stilled, only to send me prancing once more across the rocks.
It moved my arms where it would: held them wide, outstretched to embrace the world, or pressed close to my body, or allowed my arms to rest on cushions of air, or posed for a dive. My hands and fingers danced and moved as if playing an instrument in the wind, of the wind, attempting to catch the wind.

A wild glee filled me, shouts of laughter escaping from my heart to be carried away by the wind to the unsuspecting ears of unknowing, unaware passerby. I can only imagine the image presented if they but chanced to look up to see: a wild chit of a girl, hair whipping madly about her face, fey eyes, and a wide grin, leaning dangerously into the wind with little care for the nearby edge.

All control given over to the wind, my heart grew lighter, and my cares disappeared, swept away by this lovely, wild, fey wind.
After hours of play, the wind and I reluctantly parted ways; the wind with a promise for a quick return and a final ruffle of my hair; I with a grin on my face, mischief in my mind, laughter on my lips, and a spring in my step.