Oh just look at the trees thrashing! The crows are presumeably waterproof but even so, cling on looking most disgruntled and down-in-the-beak. How can such an inflexible face convey such misery?
Another lashing of rain passes the window in a squall. Squall is such a descriptive word: It sounds like a small child throwing a tantrum or an irate pheasant hving just had its tail feathers stood upon.
But squall it is. A band of opaqueness passing briefly between me and the sky. Oh! And what a sky!
Steely blue-grey, like annealed metal, promising no mercy.
And so how, given these conditions can it be that here I sit pouring words from the furious firings of my neurons onto a distant chunk of memory in a computer somewhere?
I don't know. Possibly, the sanctuary of the warm room and transparent barrier of the double glazed windows allow a kind of smug detachment.
So, here in my cave, I write, tentatively but with no lack of material. For my brain is a constant mass of electrical and chemical activity and somehow it finds coherence enough to be articulated.
How many others are there looking out at the wind and the rain, musing quietly and privately on how good it is to be inside and not out there?
I would surely be interested to know.
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