Hearing trees coming from all directions, loud, then soft as the wind
rolls through the neighborhood like a wave. Here and there, trees answer
in response. Unpredictable, can't stop the gusts, nor know how violent
they'll get. But the window breaks the will of the wind, all its violence
spent on its cold expanse. These are good clear windows, strong clear
windows, bright strong suburban windows. A community of windows, dark
windows looking out on the frosted scenery of a dry and warm moonlight
night.
     I have to go outside to smoke, which is a delight. I want to be
awake, to live in this night, to go over the things I need to go over and
think out the things I need to think out, with the blind wind helping.
I'm like a flag anyway, on inner wind. I wait for the wind to fill my
sails and send me plashing away in a particular direction. I always wait
for the wind to come to me. Looking out windows and being windows.
     For the wind to wild away. Going over my minute plans, the old dead
daily cares. The old dead daily dreads blown away in the sanctuary of
wind. Where I can perch in the window and watch the wind and streetlights
and the frosted hills rise huge behind, the lights and streets and black
windows and everywhere trees trailing leaves.