The Wuthering

The high moors slant giddily over gritstone edges where torrents overflow gallons of sky. Grouse are blown sideways by a bone-twisting gale. The land is harried by fishtailing winds, a sparse tufted earth blown beyond its roots. In the valley, cats crouch; dogs snap the air their barks as full as storm-drains. Torrid echo’s outrun stampeding frights. In the village pub, locals move away from the smoke grimed rattling windows, gather around a coal fire in the taproom, speak about past storms, compare and contrast. Street sparrows survive by doing what they always do, though nobody knows how, what or where.