gusty.

primordial weather.
that's what's up.
it actually looks like a windswept snow-dune tundra.
last night it was so windy,
we woke up in the middle of the night to sounds
of a horrible hustle, bustle, shuffle and kerfuffle.
that's a terrible 3a.m. wake-up call, kids.
it's still so windy,
the whole of the wide woodsly goodness is
swayin' and shakin' and hootin' and hollerin'.
who thought of wind?
i mean,
it's just air.
yeah, air.
like in the places where insulation is supposed to be in my house.
air.
smashing itself against the homestead,
and plummeting the temperatures outside.
it's blowing so puffy-cheek hard,
that even after a white-out snowstorm,
there's no traces of new snow.
it's blown all the way away.
somewhere east of here,
there must be a mountainous drift...
and it's so loud, ya'll.
loud and invasive.
loud, invasive, pervasive, and persuasive, even.
all around me the noses and cheeks and lips are chapped.
nobody even wanted to waft their way over for tattoos, either.
it's cold.
it's cold like the distilled essence of winter.
i'll bet a pair of witch's teats under an ice-cube sweater
would seem like the molten magma of maui by comparison.
that's cold.
it's so cold that even with the woodstove cookin' up some logs,
the heat turned on.
that means that even the warmest room in the house
isn't that warm.
what a stupid day, my ninjas.
i've got a union suit on,
under my normal sweet sleepytime jammies.
it's the brightest moon of 2010 outside,
and the worst weather, too.
it's so suckie,
there should be a sugarfree gum named after today;
arctic suck,
or,
winter sh!tmint,
or some other descriptive, ultra-whitening,
fast-acting awfulness.
the weekend is here already,
and the bathroom project is at a standstill for a minute.
i'm on some tracking number update action,
perched patiently by my space heater,
waiting.
the dog is on red-alert, oo.
except,
because she is as suckie sometimes as the wind,
she's barking the alarm code for savage side-kicks,
at absolutely nothing but air.
oh,
what i'd give to have my house as full of hot air as my face is.
if i was a sailor,
my canvas would be fully unfurled, and i'd be on my way.
instead,
i'm anchored down,
and my hatches are battened.
before long,
i'll be abed,
under a hefty heap of flannel,
tryin' to shiver my timbers.
and funnel that friction into fuel for my furnace.
cold hands and warm hearts,
it's all really happening.
i think i just saw the abominable snowman;
never quiet, never soft.....