South Westerly

A south westerly buffeted the house all night, howling at the windows, trying to find something loose to lift up and rip away. Then the rain hardened to hail bruising early summer growth with icy shot. I like laying in bed listening to rain but this was no soft patter, no gentle sedative to send one to sleep. This was rage, broken free of limits. Senses tightened, stretched across sleepless hours waiting for the breach, the moment when wind would find the weakest point. No mind was in this fury but a pure play of power, vectored here on some fall of numbers hidden in the howl. Unencumbered by thought or feeling there was a raw beauty to its might. By morning it was all blown out. Children jumped puddles of blue sky on their way to school. Workers were busy clearing away a tree that had fallen on a house killing a couple as they laid listening or slept.