My head is pounding, three days of this. The wind has been blowing. I look out my office window and it is either the eye of the storm with it's fits and starts or we're near the end of it. The trees are bending, but there are little black leaves, birds. They're sitting swaying in the tree, calm. When they fly off, they all fly off. Its like watching a school of fish. One makes a subtle turn that sets off a wave and undulation.
Its an eerie view, because suddenly I thought of those childhood explorations in the woods at grandma's house. Whatever prompted me the first time to look at the underside of a fern is what I am looking at now. I am looking up at the spores, and marveling at their steadfast attention to their place. Swaying in the wind.