Is there spirit in the wind?

A strong southwesterly sends clouds scudding
and sets the trees dancing this morning.
It speaks to me and sings
in the rattle of leaves and the bong of chimes.
It says: 'I am spirit. I live. I animate your world.
Feel my cool caress on your skin,
the tingle of rain drops driven against  your exposed flesh.
Know me for the soul of the world.'
Sensation and emotion join in the whispering refrain,
amplify it through the neural network
and the pulsing chambers of my heart.
All is motion, and excitement, and change.
And I thrill to it.

But reason casts its doubts,
muttering its tattered logic
like old King Lear mad on the heath
rocked by a disbelief as profound as age and gravity...
and Mr. Hawking.
'This,' reason informs in his torn shirt,
from under his shock of tousled hair,
'is pure physics, the movement of air,
mere molecules rushing into a relative vacuum
in the schema of your so-called creation.'
Then he pauses to think, and think, and think again,
dissecting atoms of truth right down to...
Their uttered joy,
to the force that impells them.
And reason asks:

'Why?
Why this perpetual motion that disturbs
the very notion of rest?'

It seems to me that perhaps
all the world must live
and that I myself am a formulation
of the living breath which
shouts, and sings, and booms
and staves off the contrapuntal silence.