A Gale-Force Wind

by Jim Tilley

A gale-force wind off the western reservoir shakes the house,

sure sign that winter approaches,

too few leaves left to impede the blow.  It passes through

almost-bare branches and slams

the back windows.  Last winter, it lifted the glass from the table

on the deck and tossed it onto

 

the floorboards, where it shattered into thousands of pellets,

collateral damage lessened

only by the tempered nature of the glass.  But climate change

or not, the temper of the wind

has changed, more outspoken and violent lately, no longer

respecting the sturdy beeches,

 

pines, and oaks that have stood their ground for decades,

some a hundred years.

We grew tired of weather weathering the deck, of having to

replace boards rotting around

the nails holding them in place, and decided to replace wood

with composite.  We watched

 

for weeks as, section by section, the workers splintered

the old planks with crowbars,

pried them out and laid down the new.  The replacements

are spaced farther apart

than the old.  This the wind enjoys, playing its resonant song

as it riffles the air in the gaps,

 

transforming the deck into bassoon.  It begins with flute-

like whines as the mounting gale

catches the underside and the boards experience first

pangs. Then moans become groans,

a longer-lived grumbling roar like the early-morning snores

of a person resisting waking

 

to another day.  Drafts sift in around the windows; we hold

our comforters close.

We turned the clocks back last Sunday, but only an hour.

Our friends remind us that we

can’t turn farther back, not even a few years, for another run

at this, trying to find a way

to avoid scrapping all the old when little enough, it turns out,

was too rotten to use.

Leaning against the railing as it begins to pour, not much

cover afforded by my windbreaker,

I peer out over the graying hills.  Every day it becomes harder

to miss the metaphor.