Hay viento

[rejectomorph]

Night wind comes, driving fresh clouds, making the pines whisper or howl and the new oak leaves shudder. Mist swirls and slicks the pavement to a dark sheen. The glimmering sky is shot with streaks of lost moonlight, the clouds tumbled like dark sheets on a restless sleeper's bed. Damp hours roar or murmur past, and gray light slowly gains a purchase on the tumultuous world. Gradually calmed, the revealed landscape stills at last, and quiet prevails, and a calm sufficient to induce the morning birds to sing. My walk is a strew of faded camellia petals.