It’s in the wind

It’s a rushing day, a windy day, a chase the recycle bins down the street day. A roaring in the bare trees day where the dogs hasten inside, spooked by the unseen push of a vengeful summer beating ��winter’s ghosts out of the shadowed places.

I’m still with fatigue of a late hour turned into an early morning as I waited for sirens to warn me to earth, a call that never came, yet did its task regardless; a lifetime of knowing and reading the wind beats Jim Cantore.

Coffee will quicken the fingers and ease the pressure within my face, but the stillness inside will remain, an unrealized memory of what if.