there’s a strong wind on the mountain.
raises the roof and slams it back down again.
bang. bang. bang.
the outside wants in and like a hooligan tribe the outside rushes in on the wind.
dirt races in.
the monkeys are undisturbed high up the tree tops. they stick like flypaper, the wind keeps time to deep throated chanting.
the wind lurches and howls like a blind man gone mad from the drink.
the dogs shudder and sigh.
I wonder about the clothes on the line, will the clothes pegs hold until morning? Yes, held fast but found twisted into a tableau of manic orgy, all order lost, indecent mingling and tangles.
morning conjures respite as every single living thing from one horizon to the next stops to regard the dawn. yet it’s nothing more than a breather, as the wind resumes its campaign, bending the trees until some are forced to tap out and snap like dry twigs. dry season plus wind equals deep damage.
fire on the mountain.
the wind cares not. its neither maliciously amused nor maliciously intent. the wind races through the country with continued abandon. rampaging. an unexpected visitor in march. raising the roof and slamming it back down again. how curious. how long?
Originally published March 5, 2013
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