Gusts of wind are driving the furious rain to beat repetitious tattoos on windowpanes. All the remaining leaves clinging to swaying twigs give wild flutters, while those that fall go spinning into darkness. A bit of light let loose by an open window shade makes the pavement gleam, and reveals the broadening stream that fills the road verge. Wildness has prevailed all the long night, the pines a chorus of unceasing moans and howls, the spattering of raindrops rising and falling but never still. I am mesmerized by the storm song, and can do nothing but listen as the hours drift untold.
The storm lull releases dozens of small, brown birds who flock to the wet lawns, where they peck and chirp. Fog turns the tops of pines to shadows, but does not descend. The muted green of distant fields is like an inviting summer shade, but will soon be swept by cold, returning rain. Sound is amplified under this low, cloud-crowded sky, the hum of cars on nearby roads blending with the sustained rush of wind shivering the pines. The dripping of the trees never stops, and the acorn woodpeckers fill the gray day with their chuckling. There is no trace of sun, other than the steady dimming of the evening brought on by its departure. Night does not fall, but creeps up, accompanied by a brief glimmer from the closing curtain of renewed rain.