Tonight the wind is sighing ’round the house. It is whipping ’round the corners and tapping at the seams. There is a weakness, there, at the front door. The wind climbs the steps and knocks. The door whistles back a reply, a greeting fit for a meeting between old friends.
The wind twists around the trees. Their branches rub together and begin to creak. They are not accustomed to dancing. But they thrill to it nonetheless.
The wind travels out to the barns, where it rattles the door and shakes hands with a loose piece of tin. The tin beats out a rhythm against the side of an old calf crate.
The wind is eager tonight to travel where it will; to give voice to the voiceless. As it sighs, doors whistle out tunes, trees hum as they dance, and pieces of loose tin try their hand at percussion.
Tonight I curl up in my chair and let the world sing me a song through the dark.
A special music –
a music that only the wind can bring.