Twice tonight I was surprised by the sound of the wind in
the tree branches. I’m not unfamiliar with that sound, but this was different.
The words I would usually use would be ‘roar,’ ‘moan,’ whistle,’ or ‘hiss.’
Tonight’s sound was more like that of a bass flute, or somebody blowing over the
top of a large bottle. It started quietly, and then rose evenly like a vehicle
approaching along the road, or maybe some airborne spirit passing by. I wonder
what that was about. The moon was high and full, and I realised that one of The
Shire’s bigger houses is now empty. The man with the Close Encounters car – the
pick up truck with the bank of lights along the top which looked so mysterious
coming out of the mist – has gone, it seems. Pity. I quite liked him.
* * *
I’ve been thinking all day today about a treatise on the
subject of ‘The Process of Descent, or Ascent, into the Reclusive Mindset’ (and
the difficulties associated therewith,) but I decided there’s been quite enough
of that for the time being. Maybe I’ll make it when I’ve pulled my own mind out
of its present dolorous state and said something funny for a change.
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