All night, wind shook the house,
tore at shutters,
spun the windchimes whose
rods knocked against the eaves.
Inside, walls creaked,
the chimney moaned, and
she moaned between dreams,
woke twice in the wee hours,
lay for long minutes
staring into dark.
By morning,
the wind had wandered on,
leaving debris about the yard,
bags and newspaper banked against the fence.
Eating breakfast slowly
in the living room --
dried peaches out of a tin --
she sees the oak still clutching its leaves,
and across the yard, an elm
naked in a circle of brown and gold
as if every leaf had dropped at once
from fright
or the tree had opened all its hands together
and let them go.
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