Clear and cold. Over the wind, the rustle of a squirrel bounding through waves of dead grass, and the high, thin calls of a lone waxwing.
Wind in the trees: that ghostly not-quite speech. In last night’s dream, a human centipede pacified its prey with cliches about self esteem.
As many hours as the wind has been blowing, a strong gust brings still more leaves. A tulip poplar samara helicopters almost to the porch.
The Saturday laughter of children. Drizzle seems as if it’s impending, but there’s only a light breeze and the distant whisper of trains.
Though warmer and more fitful, last night’s breeze is still blowing. Blackberry canes wag. Even the dead grass gets into the swing of it.
Bright spots in the clouds disappear as quickly as they appear. Fire siren. A magpie rattles at the wind.
A phoebe lands on a branch and flicks his tail, not fooled by the passing resemblance of scattered, zigzagging snowflakes to flying insects.
Dead leaves rise from the forest floor and go scuttling back and forth in small flocks. A few ascend to the sky—just beginning to clear.
Each morning arrives with a fresh coat of snow, but today’s is threadbare. For a minute or two, the wind is whiter than the ground.
Small flakes sting my cheek; ice-bound trees squeak and groan. From the feeder up at my parents’ house, the happy chatter of snowbirds.