On the way north

Weather said we’d have some snow. None showed, but the winds were here. The clouds and storm whisked their way north, pushing through the capital.

The clouds were low, very low. It was distracting while driving. They seemed to skim the tops of the trees, swirling.

They held just enough menace—just enough darkness that they leeched the light from the day. Above us were daubs of gray, haloed by whiter gray. The sun shone through in abrupt, small columns as the broken clouds swirled and mixed.

It seemed at any moment the sky would lay siege to our city and begin the snow. It never came. Only the winds.

In our apartment the winds buffet the tower with incredible force. Things billow so strongly, that our plate-glass windows bow and creak with each gust. At night, seeing the reflection compress and expand is very interesting. I’m waiting for one particularly strong iteration to just snap and shatter the thing. Hopefully I’m not typing on my computer as that happens. Shards of glass sailing through my face isn’t the most amazing and exciting thing, I’d imagine.

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