Scattered By High Winds

"Fire & Rain" by Alan S. Garrett

On this November morning, winds howl and dust blows with a vengeance I do not recall seeing except during spring storms. Gray bands of clouds begin to turn shades of pink and orange as the sun rises. A buzzard navigates the turmoil in the sky with ease. Leaves shower the metal roof of a home in a way that resembles the sound of waves of heavy rain drops. Sticks ripped from the trees bounce off the roof and siding like hail. Less than a week before Thanksgiving and the ground continues to dry again, as the remaining strands of dead grass bend to and fro.

I wear a sweater because it is cooler inside than out. There would be an air of mugginess about were the heat pump thermostat not set to cool. That kind of mugginess in a home at the start of the day can alter the mind like a bad dream, making the entire day seem terrible before its even had a chance to begin. Thankful indeed am I, even before Thanksgiving.

Not a rabbit or squirrel, not a single armadillo or skunk, not even a tiny bird stirs beneath the bird feeders as the winds empty seeds onto the ground. Only the occasional buzzard flies in search of food. Even the cattle have retreated from the upper pastures in search of cover from this skin-drying wind. Thank goodness the bone-chilling cold hasn’t arrived with it.  (Unless of course the cold would have been a measure of balance; in which case, I am quite unthankful for these mild temperatures.) Should these winds prevail for long, I expect the skies to be full of dust by dusk. Breathing in these winds should they continue like this throughout the day, I’m sorry to say, will be difficult for the good souls that bear the burdens of asthma. If only it were the destructive dragons of the world whose breaths were stolen by such winds in order to remove the power in their flames before they scorch the land, creating havoc for those who fight wildfires.

"Daub" by Alan S. Garrett

Now that the sun has risen into the sky, the clouds that remain turn white. In these winds they almost appear like daubs of paint thrown on a canvas, then scraped into a fading existence: no longer what once was but still struggling to maintain some semblance of what they might have been. In the wind we must all struggle to maintain some semblance of what was by always searching for what could be within those clouds —  scattered by high winds.