Three weeks before Thanksgiving the evenings were red on the mountaintops toward the sea, and the bristling, officious wind raked the valley and sang around the house corners at night and flapped the window shades, and the little whirlwinds took columns of dust and leaves down the road like reeling soldiers.
Every night the sky burned over the sea and the clouds massed and deployed, charged and retreated in practice for the winter.
No comments:
Post a Comment