Winded

A placid moon and washed-out sky glow above roiling trees and tumbling streams of dessicated leaves. The woodlands dance and chatter, whirlwinds hoist autumn's detritus and dash it against the trees from which it lately fell, pines groan and fling their cones to crash amid the year's flailing wreckage. For hours, the sound of wind continues as the moon passes, and as it settles among the pines to the west, the half-denuded eastern oaks catch its final rays and become like dim clouds of smoke inexplicably unmoved by the turbid air. At last, the sky darkened by the moon's descent reveals scattered stars, and the now-shadowed ground rustles with the invisible skittering leaves. A perfect November night!

Also...

No
u!

Barf Barf Barf!

They have dogs. The hair-challenged primates who have infested the house next door, I mean. There are at least two dogs, not of small, yappy varieties, but of big, booming-voiced varieties. One (a rottweiler, I think), to the great surprise of its primate, just managed to escape the fenced back yard through the simple means of climbing over the gate. The primate, on returning from some jaunt in one of those small pickup trucks which is used by unknowingly bad drivers to weave through traffic, discovering that the secretly dominant beast had chosen to leave its inadequate confinement, queried the dog as to how it had escaped. The dog, clearly smarter than the primate, kept its secret. The primate returned the dog to the yard (with what was an undoubtedly ineffectual scolding) and spent a moment fiddling about with the (undoubtedly sound) gate latch. Dog 1, primate 0. I see a slaughter in the offing. Never trust a dog that pretends to be less intelligent than its supposed owner.

Damn. Now I have to worry about my cat.