Wind Fury, Writing Fury
It’s August. The land thirsts. Leaves of the willow, yellowing. No air moving. But at five in the evening the wind marches our way. Not like a thin wind, more like a predator. What’s going on? We check and learn thunderstorms are bearing down on us. Suddenly, leaves flurry and dance like chicken feathers in a hen house. Wind and rain. We quickly leave our neighbor’s and hurry home. Chimes are clanging with madness on the back porch. Tired from an afternoon headache (caused by