Not every day
Is one of raging storms.
So what does a Storm Inspector
Do
On such quiet days?
Yesterday
I sat down
To record with pen and book
The sounds and songs
Of the hundred-voice choir
Of the wind.
8:30 a.m.
The wind awakes
Although moving silently,
I know it has stirred, for
The surface of the pond
Has betrayed its stealth,
Excited streaks of light arise
As the cat's paw breeze dash
Across the waters.
Then in dulcet tones:
| Wafting | Whispering | Purring |
| Light and Variable | Whiff | Sighing |
| Lulling | Cooing | Mewing |
| Puff | Rustling | Tinkling |
Muffled, silvery, enchanting air.
10:00 a.m.
Yesterday morning,
The wind trailing behind
The rushing cold front
Had moaned across the hollows
Of my face
In a mysteriously spiritual conversation.
Today
The wind again finds its voice
Hissing through the dry oak leaves
Chattering as it scolds the fallen
Down the boulevard.
| Wind voices: | ||
| Humming | Fluttering | Shushing |
| Buzzing | Tapping | Murmuring |
| Chiming | Wheezing | Swirling |
| Shuffling | Twittering | Clattering. |
Noon
At the height of the sun
I sense a change in the air.
The wind cannot decide
Whether to whisper its song
To privileged ears
Or to raise a hullabaloo
Trumpeting its turbulent presence
To the world below:
| Surrounding | Cascading | Gusting |
| Surging | Whistling | Trembling |
| Fretting | Muttering | Fussing |
| Quivering | Quavering | Quaking |
| Pulsing | Eddying | Flatulent |
| Vibrating | Swelling | Snapping. |
2:15 p.m.
The wind has chosen
To raise a gale.
The Arctic Express
Has howled into town
With a voice that would
Shake mountains --
A thunder without clouds.
I raise my coat collar
And cinch my book.
The best is yet to come.
| Booming | Busting | Blustering |
| Growling | Roaring | Droning |
| Bellowing | Bawling | Boiling |
| Complaining | Trumpeting | Erupting. |
5:17 p.m.
Inspector work knows no hours
When it comes to weather.
Overtime today.
The gale is singing in the wires
While the sylvan chorus
Wavers beneath.
After fretting the cabin all day,
A slight directional shift begins
A wind whistle
Rising in pitch
Falling for a semi-quaver...
Up again...
Now a banshee wail,
Shrill and strident;
| Now a thundering, | Piercing | |
| Whining | Screeching | Clamorous |
| Exploding | Screaming | Shouting |
| Boisterous blast. |
6:06 p.m.
hear a voice.
Whose voice?
Gale's.
My God, it's become an angry wind.
I retreat with the sun
Behind the shelter
Of walls.
| Wind now: | ||
| Rattling | Rolling | |
| Fighting | ||
| Shrieking | Crying | |
| Trembling | ||
| Rumbling | Reverberating | |
| Cracking | Clacking | |
| Drumming | Blasting | |
| Raucous. |
Can the wind be so perturbed
And not break into storm?
My opinion today is "yes"
But the line is fine,
And lacking rain or snow,
I choose not to call it
"Storm."
Indeed,
Even the clouds flee
From the wrath of the wind,
A tempestuous, throbbing
Tortuous tattoo.
11:49 p.m.
The day almost done.
But since my last entry,
Nearly a quarter earth-turn ago,
The wind has howled,
Has moaned,
Has wailed
Unceasingly
Baying to the moon.
All trees appear to bow
In fear of the power
Of this gale.
Birds cowering
Amongst shaking boughs
Dare not venture forth
For fear of being
Dashed against a wooden shore.
Although the windows rattle,
The doorway cries in violation and
The chimney flute plays an anguished tune,
I know my cabin
Will survive the worrying wind.
I turn out the light
Rolling snugly into my quilt
And chuckle
As I close my eyes for sleep.
While
In my brain
The wind songs
Still echo.