The wind did not relent. For days the blast of forceful air came out of the east, pummelling the shore, white caps dancing from horizon to shoreline day and night, grounding the smaller birds and animals.

The livestock acted skittish. Mistrusting the wind, that it might obscure the sound of approaching danger.

Sickly Ash trees threatened to snap.

The only escape was inside. Even then, the sound of the wind across the tin chimney proceeded, the loose shingles thwacked, windowpanes rattled.

It seemed that they, he and she, were at odds.

She: “I can’t relax in this wind. I grind my teeth, I am not calm.”

He: “Really? I find the sound of the surf relaxing. I sleep so soundly through the night. The waves are like the sound of breathing to me.”

She: “It’s too sensational for me. I can’t be peaceful when the wind hits my hair, my skin, so unrelentingly. My ears ache. I wonder if wind has ever driven anyone insane?”

Her clothes had become damp from the stiff wind off the lake, seeping in through the cracks in the cabin.

He: “Dunno. Wind makes me horny.”

She: “A stiff wind?”

He: “Exactly.”

She: “Well that’s a kind of insanity. It’s good for that at least.”

He: “Wind, blow and crack your cheeks!”