The wind kept me up last night. It was groaning, barking, clamoring at the roof. It tried to get in the bedroom window, tried to freeze the hand that was holding my book. I wouldn't relent. I got a frumpy sweater and wrapped myself up—sectioned and bowed—like an old lady in her bathrobe, and I lay down again with the covers pulled up right over the tops of my ears. Only my hand and my eye were exposed. My hand, my eye and the book. Winning. That's me.
Exactly why was the heat in my room unable to combat this infernal wind? It didn't make a sound—not one that I could hear. The vents were cloistered mutes. My heating system had left me to die of exposure, there in my own bedroom, just as if I hadn't been feeding it for years—feeding it money and turning its little thermostat in expectation of hospitality returned.
Wild things tore the night into a thousand pieces while I tried to be asleep.
Cats were picked up by gales and carried away from fences, keening, to be plunked down next to the open maws of dogs. Dogs were beaten stiffly with clubs of air about their naughty heads. The songbirds were taken and fed to the north, which was sucking the whole world in. February, February. I know it's you. You want to lift the dark world up and shake it a little bit. Set it back down and pretend like nothing has happened. Hide behind a corner and make us think that it was March.
My dreams were disturbed by the ripping of the world.
This morning, though, all is silent. The house, except my bedroom, is all warm. My cat comes in, reassembled, and now begging to be fed. No new snow has fallen and of course there will be school. All it was was wind. And the world looks almost the same. But for the cracks on everything, you'd think it never happened while I slept.
Author's Note: Most of this is metaphorical, except for the terrible sound and cold. No animals were injured in the making of this blog post.