Oct 29, 2012

Waiting for Sandy


The scene a few doors down, a little while ago.

Quiet. Cars, buses, trains, and butts are parked. Stores are shuttered. Cabinets filled. So eerie that there are no trains rumbling underground, triggering a call for a "speech, speech!" from the glasses in my cabinet. No cars honking at "sunday drivers" at the corner. Just wind calling for quiet. 

Out my window, trees grip the small patches of ground they are allotted in this urban landscape, their limbs flailing as if on tightwire. The roaring winds rise and fall like the tides we have been hearing about for the last few days. 

Reminded that tides, full moons, and nature -- and quiet -- are still there in the background. Even if we're not paying attention.

The city that prides itself on never sleeping is still awake, but waiting. Agitated, as though forced to a slow pace behind ambling tourists on a narrow sidewalk. Waiting for an opening to pick up speed again. 

A frantic sawing sound a few houses up suggests a forced amputation. Bloody and wet. The other trees on the block grip tighter. Then quiet again. Every so often I see faces at the windows of the houses that abut my backyard. We are all watching the wind. 

My Irish self is only delighted that for once other people are as obsessed with weather as I am.  

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