Tonight the wind is whipping itself into a frenzy. Maybe there’s a storm, or maybe the tail end remnants of someone else’s storm are wagging on by.
I could get out of bed to peer into the darkness. But who knows what I’ll see there.
Sometimes familiar sounds assault my ears, out of place because I think them to be impersonations of their true selves. The undertone of the vibrations of a passing train, the shudder of corrugated metal, the warble of large plastic garbage bins fending for their own in the facsimile storm.
Sometimes the wind redirects and smacks right into my bedroom window, like waves of air splashing against up their own beach. And sometimes it sounds like the light drumming of someone tapping to be invited inside. Either way, I check it not.
The ever present low roar of the wild wind makes me think I am on a boat, lost at sea, but a sea ofair, like some kind of fantastical adventure that just waits outside my window.
The broiling wind continues to rush as though gushing from an undetermined source after a few well-aimed pickaxe swings into the stony ground. Only this flow is not stopping. There is no felled dam that will eventually be emptied.
Much like it started, the wind will dry up without a clear end, and I will forget it happened at all as the memory corrugates with other past memories of late night un-stormy storms.