It wakes you, not the moan of a withered hagg or the fleeting voice of a dead man, but

the low trill of wind slipping past your window, air being pressed into a hushed breath.

The shadows meld themselves back into your bedroom.

You blink, the blurred hazy object of your alarm clock focuses back to existence, 2.48am,

the numbers decree.

You don't want to be awake, you don't even want to keep your eyes open, yet here you are.

Outside the air stirs in utter turmoil, churning up to 50 miles an hour and beating against

your home.

You'd known this was coming, in fact you'd known at the moment you'd seen those

thunderheads pulling in from the west, lightning forking within them.

From the storm's down draft came bursts of pine-laced wind, sharp and deceptively sweet,

a destructive force curing from the Atlantic all the way through the barrens, that large

tract of wild, unbroken wilderness.

You've often seen in the distance the tall, stalky pines of its dark woods shivering

in the gales.

What was it you were dreaming about anyway?

Who knows, the information is already lost to the senseless grumble of thoughts trying

to piece the dream back together?

Although an image of falling water still rests vividly in your mind.

Your bladder sends a signal to your brain demanding relief.

Half awake, you mechanically saunter down the short halt, you flick the lights on, too

bright.

...