Storm

As we head out for our walk this morning, low gray clouds streak across the sky. The air remains unseasonably warm, but the strong breeze is laced with a hint of on oncoming chill.

The neighborhood is a mess.

Despite the fact that Yard Man raked it clean just yesterday, the lawn is lost beneath a layer of leaves from our hickory nut tree. Each hand-sized leaf is stiff and curled; they look and feel like flattened, elongated footballs. They clatter underfoot, tough as plastic, as we make our way to he street.

The limbs above our heads are bare.

The street, parked cars, and neighboring houses are plastered with a thick, wet layer of tree tras. Twigs litter the asphalt. Gutters and sewer grates gurgle with rushing water.

Down the street and around the corner, a fallen tree blocks the road. Neighbors mill around it, animated and excited — in contrast to the city worker who props, dead-eyed, against the front of his pickup, awaiting a work crew with chainsaws and a truck.

Chelsea frowns at the clumps and piles of wet vegetation that litter her path, giving many of them a wide berth. The brisk, constant breeze seems to confuse her; she studies each house and yard as though they are completely unfamiliar.

Bricked up in our bedroom, we missed all the action. I dreamed I lived in a house where aggressive ghosts stalked the occupants, descending on anyone caught alone and possessing them. By the time my housemates and I discovered the attacks, bedlam broke loose: the air conditioning vents rattled with angry spirits and transparent skeletons clothed in tattered rags drifted through the halls with swords in hand.

This morning, surprised by the signs of the storm’s fury, we laugh: despite all the commotion, we never heard a thing.