Dashed against dauntless trees a wild wind roared scowling, into a slumbering grove. Leaves jerked. Branches clacked and nattered their reproach as near-ripened fruit spun and swayed precariously. The tempest lunged through sweeping orchards, searching; churning debris into whirlpools that crashed in waves against soil, root, and trunk. At the end of the lanes, blustery arms pushed against staunch, wicker palisades. Layered in lattice work, reinforced by firmly anchored vines, the tenacious screen pushed back – splintering squalls into sneezes.
A gust, whittled from the typhoon by an untended wicket, sailed across a small clearing towards a solitary farmhouse with shuttered eyes. The passionate flurry shredded blankets of mist and swirled overgrown grasses, swallowing an amused howl as he thought to shake the windows and rattle the doors. Over eager and reckless with spite, he did not notice the guardians lining the eaves. Sentinels fashioned from iron and steel; Cockspur and Crepe Myrtle; and the talons and bones of flightless birds, sounded the alarm.
The once wild wind circled, befuddled, lost in the chiming cacophony of of grounded things wailing under the touch of something free. Staggering, the flaccid breeze almost foundered, but sucked up his last bit of courage to escape down the side of the house. Then tripped across a blackberry bramble in the wrong direction, forcing him to double back. Barn dogs warbled a cheeky warning to the wind never to return, and a wise tree tapped on an upstairs window to tell his lady, “A storm is coming.”