Stillness reigns in these long hours before dawn, the moon a sliver and gone so soon it might not have come at all for the weary or slumbering. We had gale-force winds before sunset again and expected those to pound us all night and into next week, truth tell and forecasters, too, but no. The winds vanished without warning, without adieu, fuss, or promise, leaving the stage to this imponderable stillness, skies inky black and receding, the whole lot alongside us merely parts of one impossible whole that is steadily, relentlessly coming apart.
And then, like a whisper gaining strength from a wide-open field of waiting and wondering ears and hearts, the winds ease back in now from stage west, fingering the house—walls, windows, doors—seeking not shelter but a simple sashay through any unsecured crannies of the persons within. In such nights eternity reveals the middle earths of its soul and we, its lonely wanderers, are greeted with the welcome reserved for long-lost pilgrims.
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