You can fly with the wind or be carried away by it.

From Alfred’s journal

A hard west wind all afternoon, the kind that flattens the field grass into combed hair. I went up into it because I am vain about my shoulders and wanted to see what they could still do. For most of my life I thought wind was either help or trouble depending on which way it blew, and that the whole matter was settled before I left the branch. It is not. You can fly with the wind or be carried away by it, and the difference was in my wrists, half a second at a time, the whole way out to the fence posts. Switch watched from the woodpile and said I looked like a leaf. He was not entirely wrong, and that is the part I keep turning over.