'T was a stormy Saturday. The river was brimming. It was the fullest I've seen it. The wind was constant. A steady gust for twelve hours. A brave wood pigeon flew west, beak first into the wind. The rain came in fits and bursts with a few instances of pea sized hail. The sound of rain accentuated by the corrugated metal roof that covers the bicycle racks outside my window, three stories below.
My plants bob in the wind as it makes its way from the southwest, into the courtyard and up through the slit made by my barely open window and into my room. It's cool, fresh air. It's clean. The trunks of birch trees at a near constant tilt, their seeds are carried away with the wind. Some stick to my window. Many are blown inside. I find them on my bed, on my chair, in my plants, and on the floor.
I'm amazed that any trees still have a hold on their leaves after yesterday's wind, rain and hail.
I thought about going out into the wind and the rain, going to visit the Colne and see what it was doing with the weather. I chickened out and watched it instead from the kitchen window, warm cup of tea in hand, window cracked so I could feel the wind and the cold in a controlled manner.
The river was gray like the sky. No mud was visible. There was a man on a sea-doo personal water craft machine, speeding up and down the river and making tight turns sending walls of water into the air. I could hear the noise from my kitchen and wondered what the folks in the houseboat thought about it. I wondered if the houseboat was rocking on its wake.
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