The wind is powerful today, even here.
Sudden southeasterlies are brutal and mean, knifing through whatever pitiful layers of outerwear I have: Go in – NOW. Find warmth. Survive. My God. If it’s like this here, it must be utter chaos over the northeastern United States.
The sky’s heavy with blue-gray clouds pushed relentlessly backwards over bare whipping branches, roiling pine and cedar. There is no place, no thing that is still outside.
The chestnut tree bends and flaps a final brilliant yellow, asters glow their brave singing violet to the bruised sky.
I feel a deep, rumbling snarl rise in my gullet in answer to the harshness of this, as if I’m defending my home and young against a dangerous territorial threat. So I bundle up my snarling gullet and stand defiant on the edge of the escarpment, belly, chest and face to southeast.
From here I can see the normally peaceful lee side of Owen Sound whipped from an indigo centre to a pounding froth – as though it’s suddenly remembered how to kill.
It’s good – to be reminded how small we are, on this planet.