Through the window he could see the wind howl. He watched the small trees and bushes bend in place and the larger ones shake and quiver as if afraid of the coming storm.
The swinging bench, a recent department store sale item, swung with regularity, the perfect image of why he had wanted it in the first place. It looked cold, that wind; although he knew it was a false thought, influenced by his air conditioner supplied surroundings on this side of the glass.
Outside his windows, despite, or perhaps in spite of the wind, it was one of the hottest, stickiest days of the summer. The wind was simply the harbinger of a coming storm, whispering of cooler things to come.
The lawn was scattered with kids toys; water guns and buckets, toy trucks and bubble sticks, and looked, he fancied, just like one of those empty ships found floating out of the Bermuda triangle – with dinners half eaten sitting on the mess table, with no crew in sight.
The kiddie pool water rippled in the wind, the water had been too cold right out of the tap and the only real takers were a handful of grass blades floating across the surface and a lone earwig, who may have been there first and was still wondering what it had done to bring down the wroth of a higher being as it thrashed around still – trying to find dry, solid ground.
He sat there, in a brief moment of peace at the kitchen table, listening to raspy murmurs in the baby monitor, staring out at the sunny blue, cloudless sky and listened as the wind found its voice.