When the Wind is Southerly

A sudden south wind buffets the house, roars in the ridgetop trees for a few minutes & dies. I go out to take a leak. The moon hasn’t risen yet & it’s dark. Nightcrawlers rustle under the lilac, dragging fragments of leaves into the ground.

Wood smoke: must be from the Amish in Sinking Valley. I inhale greedily. On the other side of the mountain, the deep labored thrum of a locomotive is followed a long minute later by the whistle—an almost orgasmic release.

At this time of night, it would be perfectly reasonable to confuse a hawk with a handsaw. In the crawlspace under my floor, some small mammal scratches the cold-air return duct with restless, dreaming claws.

10 Replies to “When the Wind is Southerly”

  1. I’ve been stumping round the house singing this ever since reading this post. Although arguably not quite so well.

    Woodsmoke is I think the most evocative of all smells for me. Every now and then I catch a snatch on the breeze while cycling through London and am immediately transported to multiple other destinations in space and time.

    I had to google nightcrawlers. Imagine having the job title “nightcrawler hunter”. Funkadelic.

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