morning

there is a heavy and loud wind coming down from the forest. heavy and oppressive. gorgeous. and then a thick silence. no cars on the road even. dead silence. and yellow leaves spinning. i hear it before i feel it, the rush, the screech of tall trees swaying and whining. limbs are coming down. inga raises her noise and catches the strange scents of deer and bobcat carried down to us from the high forest.

there is something eerie in the silence that follows and the blue light of this morning. there is something forbidding in it. ominous, in spite of its luxurious feel and sound. disconcerting and strange. the yellow leaves spin. they are the signal. they are a warning. my pages flutter. there is an awful determination in this weather. the tall trees sway and drop their pods. the squirrels are gone.

if i had tough shoes and a better coat- a good coat that i could get dirty- it would be a day for brave photography. the solitude and loneliness of the camera. there is that type of death in this wind- the death of frozen things, people held down, and cars turned on their side.

huge branches are starting to fall now.

and last night i lay awake a long time and my thoughts turned angry, hurt, selfish. desirous. i couldn't sleep. was it 'The Bloody Chamber'? i couldn't get comfortable. even the pillows became cynical, ill at ease, uncomfortable, and inadequate. i tossed and turned in my angry thoughts for hours. this wind, in from under the front door, rattled my heart and made it hurt, made it go mean.

i woke and found things on the ground that weren't here before. the forest branches and bits of litter from the highway. the wind is to blame. i woke and all the angry thoughts had been carried off. i woke happy:

the coffee in my new white mug and the pen in my hand,
the new white page waiting.