Cold, with an icy breeze that creeps under both my hoods. A dusting of snow. The distant sound of a door slamming shut.
A half-inch of wet snow blew in so fast, it’s plastered to the sides of trees in lumps. From up on the ridge, the white noise of the wind.
I find my chair where the wind left it at the far end of the porch with a cracked back. Dried cattail leaves flap like banners for the dead.
The snow squall stops just before I come out all bundled up and squinting at the sun, the porch two inches deep in windblown snow.
Snowflakes in the air give shape to the wind. I sneeze, and a pileated woodpecker emerges from the far side of an oak and flies off.
The icy trees have been dusted with snow, which still sticks in the wind when they make a sound like the dry grinding of snails’ teeth.
Fast-moving clouds make the illumination of the hillside as sudden and surprising as a magician’s trick. Fallen leaves turn over one by one.
My chair has moved to the far end of the porch, away from the wind. Feral herds of leaves crab-walk and cartwheel across the forest floor.
After a windy night, the whole horizon is visible beyond the trees. I watch one of the last oak leaves float down, rocking, taking its time.
High gusts of wind salted with rain. Three goldfinches cling like limpets to the thistle seed tube feeder as it careens back and forth.