Tempest

When I went to the corner store last night the temperature had plummeted below freezing, so today I bundled up for a walk. I didn't realize the temperature had risen again, but a wild wind is blowing. Halfway down Kingsmill Avenue I noticed the roar in the bare maples and remembered lisalemonjello's post yesterday about hearing. I thought I would have difficulty recalling so much detail, but perhaps it only requires concentration. Today's walk was an auditory fiesta so I had to give it a try....

Leaves skitter and clatter across the pavement. I count wind chimes at one, two, three houses on Kingsmill. Someone in the red brick house on the corner of Florence Lane always leaves cracked corn by the back fence in winter, so the house sparrows are chattering noisily. The thunder of wind grows louder as I approach the woods in Eramosa River Park. The zipper handle flaps rhythmically against the camera bag over my shoulder. My feet rustle through grass and dry leaves of silver maples. On the bicycle track, a young woman struggles with a plastic cleanup bag, crinkling while her black dog pants attentively nearby. She looks up and says hello in a pleasant voice. My muted response. A moment later, after I pass, the dog breathes curiously at my right heal, then turns at a word from its mistress. My boots crunch along the gravel path. A downy woodpecker utters a staccato pik! from a treetop. Limbs creak, twigs rattle. Unconsciously I have begun half-humming, half-whistling Bolero under my breath. It has stuck in my head since yesterday after downloading Rufus Wainwright's "Oh, What a world" (thanks, willowing). I can still hear the song in my head.

The wind hisses in tall, yellow grasses along the river. Last night's cold formed an transparent layer of ice on the pond, but waves have pushed it against the shore, creaking and squealing. The play of water along the invisible edge fascinates me. Lazy geysers erupt through holes, sending rings across the surface. My camera clicks, clicks, clicks. Old Man Willow drops a branch in the water, plop. The wind howls past my ears.

Nature is a hazardous lover, and I'm ready for ravishment.

Back on Kingsmill Avenue, a blue van pulls away from the curb with a sigh, then a white car. Two young men manoeuvre a mattress out of a cube van, the taller fellow murmuring instructions, unintelligible over the wind. Their boots scuffle along the sidewalk toward the open door of a renovated house.

At York Road, the heavier stream of traffic raises a pulsing murmur. In front of the apartment door, a gust of wind knocks over a plastic garbage pail with a bang. I try to right it (thuds), but another one falls. The lid rises like a Frisbee and drifts soundlessly into the middle of the road. More dull bumps as I wrestle the two rogue pails around the corner, letting the wind press them against the wall.

The key chain jingles.

I wonder: what colour is the wind? And does it change with the weather?

( +1 reflection )

December wind

Litters street with fairy corpses
taut and desiccated
fallen from arboreal palace.

City bus lumbering
from the curb snorts derision
stirs a whispering cloud
some crushed.

Puny sun sheds veiled light
the draught of visions
driven before sleep.

Last chance breath
to drink again
before the hands turn
scaling to earth.