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Autumn wind is briskly gusting past my dark window–the east window where only rough blasts occasionally manage to splash the raindrops against it. Wind blowing, as usual, from far away West to far away East, under the horned harvest moon…someday this wind will mosly likely swirl over to New York and spatter that wooded state with dinky drizzly drops. Where does the wind go? Where has it been? How quickly it goes by! And how it keeps right on coming!

Sometimes, but usually only in springtime, windy nights see an east wind rushing directly at my window, quivering the upper storey with a strange timbre, coming as it does from the opposite direction, driving towards a different destination, charging into the West with all the force of a sea-storm over the Atlantic…yes, it is a noteworthy occurance when the wind comes from the East.

But tonight, things are merely normal–autumn winds blowing smoothly over flat, freshly furrowed farmland–yet, soon wintery gusts, like summer storms, shall shiver this old house to its very foundations as it has done for a hundred years now…and, though this is a change of subject, which one is never supposed to do in the last sentence, nor to run on clauses like I’m doing, I am in a mood to read poetry, though I didn’t want to attempt writing any at the moment, despite having the perfect windy night to describe…….

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