The fallen leaves are rushing about the field like demented mice, agitated by the wind, running and leaping then taking off in a murmuration, swirling about joyfully then crashed against the window by the heartless wind.

The air roars and tumbles and swats around the house and crowds of raindrops suddenly applaud — driven from different directions, in thral to the wind, their little bodies clapping against the walls, the roof, the glass.

The trees on the horizon rock with uneasy mirth, the firs more nervous than the now bare oaks that stand complacent and let the gale comb through their nakedness. The lone pine thrashes like a wet sail in the hands of a novice, tested by the flailing gale.

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