The wind howls through the branches, leaves dragging through the chilled air. The steady rhythm back and forth disrupted only when momentum has built. Then, then the wind crashes against the window pane as I lay alone in the bed. It slams wood into wood, sends tin cans scuttling, it rattles frantically at my letter box, pleading to get in and the shadows dance around the ceiling, I feel their icy fingers against my skin as they crawl beneath the covers. I watch, I watch the window in fear the howling wind will penetrate the glass. I watch the door waiting for the shadow man to reappear. I watch the ceiling for his slow 1, 2, 3 waltz. I pull the covers up and feel my cold fingers against my face, I do not pull it over, I fear what I cannot see more then what I can see. So I watch. I listen as the hands slowly move round clock. I listen to crash after wham after bang. My heart beating in unison as the storm projects its energies on this one spot, just outside my bedroom window.
Karen Hayward © 2016.