Strong Winds Recovering

Twenty-four hours ago, the wind ran across the lake searching for a place to land. Some shingles followed, torn from their topless roots. This morning there is some abuse, feathers fly on their own, the mallards are whispering in the huddled reeds, however, daylight stubbles upright into a high-rising sky. The television is predicting clear sight soon. The radio coughs, and stutters, its talk flutters from a loose tongue. Behind closed doors we gather wool from clouded minds. Ropes of rain tangle the already tangled, yet the air is not short of fresh breath, it recovers in the untrammeled stems of the living. Tawny is the hair upon the slim vixen's back, it is as sleek as ever; she goes to the water, to sip the last few drops of a homeless storm long past.