It's been so windy these last few days! The poor chickens roll around their run like soft white tumbleweed until they find the sense to take cover in their house and the sheep huddle together in a tight shield wall under the trees. The trees themselves have been shedding their load all over the garden and out onto the hill beyond; a tangled mass of branches, leaves and woody flotsam strewn far and wide. And the cat doesn't know what to do with himself. He howls continually and takes manic flying leaps from one room to another, scraping at the wind-tossed leaves through the windows.
There's nowhere you can go to escape it. It howls through the vents in the windows, a wild man of the hill seeking entry. It spews dust and leaves under the back door and churns the leaf-clogged stream. The weathermen say it is almost done, that after tonight it will have burnt itself out and be a spent force, but there is no let up so far. So we sit tight and wait.