The winds are ravaging now. They began slowly, growing in an omonous secrecy throughout the day. But now they are among some of the strongest I have felt. I want to dare myself to step outside, but the warmth of my old Irish quilt is too comforting to leave- even for a moment. So I am watching with glittering eyes outside of the window. We cannot see but a few feet- even across the street is a forever white glow from the street lights. It all is twisted up like the innocently abused teddybear of a child. Storms are a guilty pleasure of mine. The winds and the power they bring to the earth- they are unimaginably inspiring. Mother nature, in her angriest sincerest form. Is it not a lovely feeling? Protected by my caravan's wood walls I peer through insulated glass at the winds that may just crack them. The glass will hold I'm sure, the newly summer grown branches on my willow- perhaps not. But they shall survive this storm, just as I wish every other life among it does.
