And the winds just howls.

There’s a chill in the air.  A frisson, a frenzy.  A tension that creeps up through your muscles until you are poised to strike at nothing there.  And the wind just howls.  There’s a drop of rain on my window.  Another, then another, like arrhythmic drums, until they blur into the white noise of a car radio between towns, between lives.  And still the wind just howls.  There’s an emptiness on the street.  Everyone retreated to safety, to warmth and comfort and psychological fortress of a locked door and curtains closed.  And the wind just keeps howling.  There’s a glint in my eye.  I worry about windows not quite closed, about a house just old enough to be a question.  I feel a feral anticipation towards the crashing and the clashing and the raucous joy of the elements.  And the wind howls and howls and howls.