Drizzle and damp and driving drops.
Feet soaked and pants soaked and down vest soaked and sweat-soaked and I felt alive and merged into all the wildness, my hair all wild and wavy and wickedly whipping about my cheeks.
Wind in the trees sounds like waves on the shore. Waves on the shore sound like jet planes taking off. The water sucks hungrily at the rocky beach as it goes back out. Swells crash back in again, driving spray high into the air against giant granite blocks and they suck at the smaller rocks that litter the beach as they're pulled back away, hissing frustration. Gusts blow me sideways and then I sneak between some houses and escape. Rain drives down at me, small pieces of hail bouncing on my gloves out on the open edge of the island. I have the shoreline to myself. I have the island to myself. Everyone else is huddled in their house where furnaces are warm and the air is dry. Gulls hang on the air motionless in the wind. I walk down by the wharf and the wind whistles eerily in the masts of boats in drydock. A car passes, going somewhere, out of my world.
My world is rain and wind and wildness and I am wild and wet and animal, moving with the gulls, hanging on the wind.
My shoes squish.
Time to head for my cozy, furnaced, winter den. Ah joy. The magic of man discovering fire.