Tonight it has been as though the rain is trying to make up for its failure to fall in the previous storm, and the wind is trying to rush the clouds away before they can accomplish their task. It's a war of elements, and we are caught in the middle. Gusts of wind are rattling the windows, driving the raindrops with such force that they sound like handfuls of pebbles tossed by some admirer. The wind wants me! I hear it in the chimney, too, and feel its cold breath as it snuffles at the door. At times, the downspout is so burdened with runoff that I can feel its vibration when I place my hand against the wall. All the while, the pines howl. I imagine them all over the town, leaning precariously over the utility lines, their roots straining the damp soil, the huge boles likely at any moment to take out the power, leaving me in the dark, the furnace fan silenced, the house growing cold.
Now, another gust and more watery pebbles against the window as the wind booms among the nearby trees. It is a rumble almost like the onset of an earthquake. I wonder what it is like farther up the mountains, where it is cold enough for snow. I envision cabins buried, and deer huddling in the lee of dense pine groves. I am glad that I can soon crawl under the covers and stay warm as the storm passes. But first I must go out and fetch the morning paper, before it is dissolved to inky pulp inside its undoubtedly leaky plastic bag. I hope for a lull in the storm, so that I may do this without being reduced to a pulpy mass, myself. Then I will sleep, without the usual squawking of the early--rising crows today, I think. Even they will have the sense to stay out of this.