Just More Wind

The wind makes the house creak like an old banjo being lifted from its case, singing old memories down chimneys, swirling up the dusty hearth. Autumn always arrives this way, in an instant without regard of any need for warmth.  It strips a tree bare quickly, like an unfamiliar lover strips a woman that he doesn’t really love at all.   In this way, one thing ends to let another begin. A crow sits on top of a telephone pole, feathers gusting in defiance of winter.  She puts on the kettle and sighs as it hisses . Swirling up the dusty hearth, down chimneys she sings memories like an old banjo being lifted from its case.  The wind makes the house creak.