The Artist:
The wind begins before dawn. A low, percussive murmur in the trees. Growing louder by the hour. It brushes hard against the windows, pressing into the corners of the studio. By mid-morning, the light thins. A paleness that neither belongs to fog nor overcast. A perceptible space opens between me and the sun.
I open the door for the dogs. They hesitate. Ears up. Tense. Then they run, swallowed by the trees.
That’s when she blows into the studio. Her shape rides the wind, not resisting it. Stardust and vibration. Too fast to see at first, too slow to dismiss. She gathers herself near the table. A shimmer takes form. Her limbs settle into shape. The orbiting dust wraps around her head. Her eyes remain veiled. The rest of her assembles with slow dignified grace.
I remain quiet. She sits in a chair by the window. The wind washes around her. Out of the room. It leaves no trail.
I close the door. I take up my pencil and wait for her to become solid before I begin.
She came a long way.

The Subject:
It’s a difficult journey.
The transition pulls something loose from me each time. The pressure of becoming. Crossing the desert between form and memory. I hold my pieces together with intention. I am stardust. Rhythm. The residue of what was once a person.
The forest helps. The wind carries the pattern. It recognizes me. It pushes. Lifts. Presses. I ride it with no resistance. I let it shape my return. Vibrations slow down when I see his studio. Inside, I relax, settle and form.
He watches. Content to view me. He is patient. An Artist who recognizes the difference between being and becoming.
I sit near his window. The dust around my eyes spins slower. The studio waits. He waits.
He knows why I am here. I crave a witness. Someone to experience my living image again. Someone to see me before I must leave.
He draws me.
I feel myself become less stable. The stardust loses its gravity. My shape begins to shake at the edges.
He nods. He understands.

The Artist:
When I see her, she just wants recognition. She needs to be seen again. For one more moment.
The stardust rotates in front of her eyes. She adjusts to see through it.
I begin to draw her. She watches me work. Her form speeds up. She vibrates.
I keep working as she begins to fade. A slow uncoiling. A return to whatever wind carried her here. She becomes movement, then dust, then gone.
The dogs return home. Covered in mud and leaves. The light outside softens to a deeper hue. The forest no longer presses against the windows. It breathes like nature again.
I look down at the drawing.
She’s there. Unfinished. Incomplete. Lacking in precision for now. Particles waiting for completion. Or, perhaps, just a simple acknowledgment.
I leave the sketchbook open and wait for the next wind.