The Wind took up the Northern Things
And piled them in the south –
Then gave the East unto the West
And opening his mouth
The four Divisions of the Earth
Did make as to devour
While everything to corners slunk
Behind the awful power –
The Wind – unto his Chambers went
And nature ventured out –
Her subjects scattered into place
Her systems ranged about
Again the smoke from Dwellings rose
The Day abroad was heard –
How intimate, a Tempest past
The Transport of the Bird –
Emily Dickinson, The Wind Took Up The Northern Things Â
It’s been an endless summer in Humptulips County.  The hot, dry, searing days began in June, not in late July or August as usual, and they have ruled over the Farm ever since.  Because hot summer afternoons are renowned for a thirsty silence prevailing under cloudless skies, we’ve missed the soughing of the pines. We last heard their song in May.
But yesterday was different. While it is still summer by the calendar, the day appeared in costume as if it were autumn. Perhaps this was appropriate: if, after all, June appeared in drag as August, why shouldn’t August masquerade as November?  However right or wrong its impersonation was, the costume the day employed for the purpose was most appropriate to its pretense.
Before the wind gusts got so strong that venturing outside for a walk down a pine-lined driveway would have been an exercise in stupidity, I walked down to our mailbox to get the mail and the morning papers. My walk wasn’t intentionally timed to avoid the storm; I had little inkling about what was to come other than the forecast promised rain.  I only thought to make the journey in a dry state. No, the timing of my walk was determined by serendipity, as evidenced by the fact that just as I got to the mailbox the post office jeep drew up to deliver our mail. As the driver handed our mail to me through the passenger window, she greeted me with an observation about our need for the impending rain. Not even she anticipated the ferocity of the approaching storm.
As I was walking down to the mailbox, I thought I heard running water.  I wasn’t paying a great deal of attention, lost in thoughts about a recently departed friend as I was, and didn’t give the mistaken notion the attention it deserved.  But my reverie was disrupted by the brief conversation with the mail lady, and on my way back to the house I finally awoke to the fact that what I was hearing was the soughing of our pines, not running water. They’d been so silent all summer, standing thirsty and sere under a relentless sun lodged stubbornly in a wide-awake sky, that I’d forgotten they had a voice and had misplaced their song. But now they were nearing a full-throated aria, lustily belting out a song of welcome and thanksgiving as the wind blew by, the promise of rain held tightly in its grip.
And the rains came – but only after their harbinger, the wind, first announced their pending arrival by knocking down a myriad of trees all over Humptulips County; deciduous trees especially, for this Novemberish wind came in late summer, in August when the leaves remain to catch the wind and serve as sails. But these sails were not those of tall ships, and something had to give; so once it achieved a full-throated howl, yesterday’s wind brought down weakened, thirsty trees by the dozens, and as they fell, they crashed through enough power lines and knocked over enough telephone poles that some 175,000 customers, including us, had no electricity. We went without for more than 12 hours.
But our pines never fell. They still stand tall. And by evening, the promised rain was falling heavily, filling our gutters to overflowing and allowing our pines to drink their fill of the day.
And so it is that we live in a different world this morning than we did yesterday. It is still summer, but our decks are littered with pine needles, the tarmac in front of the house is studded with miniature lakes glorifying its unevenness, water drips from the eaves and lingers on window panes, the grass is wet and straining to turn green again so that it might be mowed yet again before the onset of Winter’s dormancy, the rain falls steadily on our roof, its intermittent finger-rolls readily audible in the silence of the library where I write. For the heralds of fall have been heard from; the pines have risen from their torpor and sing again.
Summer is on the wane.
