My anemometer.
As divined by the augurs, rain came today. Moderate at first, heavier later, finally accompanied by a gale. The temperature rose into the 40s (F), peaking at 47 after dark tonight; the wind speed rose into the 30s (mph)—to at least 34, judging by my frantic anemometer. It thunders out there now against the walls, waves around the limbs of the giant red oak that leans precariously over the roof just above where my bed is. Late this afternoon, the neighborhood lost power, and we time-traveled to the 19th century for a half-hour or so.
The snowfall had already dwindled noticeably by nightfall. Tomorrow streams of water will be rushing along their courses down the hill.
This morning before the rain and wind picked up I heard the conversations of the neighborhood crows. I also heard the single, unmistakable squee of an American robin—although, technically, those here at this time of year are Canadian. That is, if birds’ homes are where their nests are. (Aside: I think this debatable.) On a rainy trip to town, I saw a solitary herring gull.
Otherwise most birds were laying low, hunkering down, or floating in the lees of coves.
The night wind veers and snakes and roars. I think about it a lot, the wind. I think how, lacking life—the spruce up the hill—there’d hardly be a sound beyond the wind’s affair with the waves. Years ago, a gale much like this one (but a few months later) even squeezed a poem from me:
A Spring Night’s Gale
She shakes the glass
And ruins sleep.
Her voice is deep.
She combs the grass
In farmer’s yards.
She lifts night birds,
She utters words.
Sailors play cards
Or grunt or smoke.
In barns, lambs cry.
She gallops by
And twists the oak.
Her breath fogs panes.
She struts, she stops;
Her baggage drops
In lonely lanes.
Clouds fly, seas swell.
The moon is still.
Beyond the hill
She plays a bell.
Today’s List
1. American crow
2. American robin
3. Herring gull
