The Wind Speaks

J.E.Millais, Blow Blow Thou Winter Wind (1892)

November is a month of wind.  Teasing winds, tickling in from the south and bringing a faint memory of summer's warmth.  Restless winds, moving in from the west and telling portents of weather yet to come.  Howling winds, roaring out of the north plains of Canada with a taste of bitter winter on its tongue.

I don't mind a windy night, when I can be buttoned up in my snug little cottage with a snoring dog at my feet and the fire simmering away in the stove.  The animals outside, chickens, rabbits, and wayward cats, have their cozy places to settle in for the night, deep in thickets of straw and hay.  The trees talk back to the wind as it passes by, adding their moans and sighs to the sounds of the winter evening.  Even the stars seemed tossed in the skies, restlessly twinkling above the cold earth.

The garden is done for this season, the ground hard and frozen.  All the leaves have fallen off the box elders, apple trees, and lonely plum.  The grass is still deceptively green in places, but it's dry now, no longer soft with rain water.  Everything is asleep, waiting expectantly for a hush of snowfall to usher in the slow time of the year.

Me, my snoring dogs, and the wind, all together making a last symphony in the overture that is fall.  Winter is coming, and the Farmlette is all at peace, even with the restless, moving tosses of the wind.