wind rushes past the leaf-shedding trees, mouth agape, as though shaken by its own scream, an elongated shriek bellows as it propels forward,
stripping branches bare
the air is not calm but it seems so in comparison to the violent gusts of a second ago
rain droplets platter the ground with pools of water, the sky too dim for any glistening reflections
the emptiness is short lasting as the wind stirs itself up again, creeping up along the side skin of even those inside
rejuvenating chaotic vitality
the rain itself is not too dangerous, only cold, and cooling the air around it
so that eight-degree weather feels like minus one
but the wind unsubtly shifts it westward like liquidised hail
battering endlessly from midday through nightfall