The heavy winds came yesterday. On the drive across the river you could feel them coming, could sense them in the distance. There were disorganized flocks of birds traversing the valley, pushed and pulled out of any semblance of order, other than being a flock; wild specks dashing the sky, somehow peppered together.
The winds gently tugging even the car along the road; towards the other lane, then towards the center, then back. Sudden bursts against each side, offering invisible fight.
By the time that I got home last night, the leaves had oddly amassed in certain places, wild piles accumulated along the ground, having taken hold of my parking spot, occupying it. Yellow leaves stripped from their trees, scattered here and there. The low and dark clouds making all things seem closer, and faster. The skies above dashing elsewhere.
All night the wind chimes played their song, a rushed flurry of gentle notes echoing out into the dark, ringing their partial call, ending only in the silence of sleep.
Nothing sings as loss more than winds blown, or blowing
Little stirs leaves like loss; like losing, knowing
Nothing stings, nothing's gone, nothing showing
Nothing's blowing
.
