Batten Down.

Wind. All day long, and insistent, continuous, out of the west, mainly, and more than enough to bring down small branches all up and down the street. Bright, bright sunshine and almost warm out there if the wind's not blowing, but it is. Hard. All the time. Wind.

I think sometimes I forget that weather's not just temperature and whether or not anything's coming out of the sky.

It's loud out there, and in that noise, a pretty sure beauty: one more way to know the trees are where they are. Six or eight geese came overhead west to east at an impressive speed. Tailwind. The crows are getting knocked around. Somehow that seems right, though I don't mean them any specific harm.

Trashcans tipped over. Blue bucket up against a storm drain. The neighbor's kid's tent rolling across the yard. Bits of paper flashing by. Nothing not moving. Whatever's in the street gets blown past, then gets blown back again.

Goddamn new neighbor dog barking all damn day. Maybe it's the wind. My dad used to like to tell a joke about two old men, hard of hearing. First one says, It's windy. Other one says, You old fool. It's Thursday. There's more to that joke. I just can't remember it now. He would do the voices. He loved that one. I imagine he still does.