The wind is picking up.
The trees are leaning away now drawing longer breaths from the northeast gusts. The leaves on deck are lifting their heads, then scuttling across the wood, gathering in the corners or against the posts.
A gray finch caught inside the garage was struggling to get out thru the back wall. I managed to catch and cup it in my hands, surprised how little it weighed. It wouldn’t calm down so I quickly unlatched the window frame and pulled the upper sash down. When it left my hand, I felt nothing more than the weight of a small breath on my palm.
In this wind, I wonder where those small things go, the ones that always seem so anxious and hungry. They don’t weigh more than these dried leaves now bullied and shoved along the ground. What would I do if I knew?
Curious how these storms can take those small breaths away…