I always get anxious when the wind picks up.  It's been blowing, now, a week.  The first day pretty much blew all the old MacDonald wrappers and Big Gulp cups down the road.  Now the grasses along side the ditch are flattened and the trees in the far field seem to be permanently deformed, their branches leaning out like they're trying to catch the wind and ride along with it off into the east.

A horse with a yellow blanket stands under the trees, rump to the west, head down, ears back. The wind makes everyone crazy.  My dog gets up and stretches.  He goes to the door and sniffs at the crack where sand drifts in and piles up by the sill.

They say it's an ill wind that blows no good.  This wind is malevolent.  Nothing good will come of it.  Tyler's car is coming down the road.  Coming like a tumbleweed.  I can see the dust rising up into the air coming off his rear tires. Moving across the field toward me like a dirt devil.