It was a storm to tear down century old terracotta chimney pots and a storm to harvest the trees like corn, to tear asunder the work of good men and bring down our glass house.
The kind of storm that had lifted my Persian rug from my bare floor boards some years ago.
I lay awake in the torrent and brought the sheets about my ears.
The scent of sweat came to me, not the sweats of union nor of solitude, but of fear.
The violence of the world outside fostered a sense of unnatural stillness within my room.
I imagined its long cruel arms grasping at my windows, trying to connive their way in.
To tear at me, to taunt me, to cast me amongst the wilderness.
The air in there was still but I began to feel it move.
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