What will happen? They say the wind will blow tomorrow -- 50, 60, maybe 90 miles per hour. The turkeys will cling to their branches, talons wound tight, feathers ruffled. The deer will curl themselves into the snow on the leeward slopes. The bear, smart one, is asleep already, and will hear stories of the wind from the squirrels in spring. We will sit around the stove in our little A, watching spruce and fir dance above the dog graves.
And what will happen to us, as the wind blows and we grow older, and the child loses his infant's innocence and decides one day that he doesn't need a hug, doesn't want a song before bed?
What will happen to us when the grandparents go and we've put off telling them that we love them, forgive them, miss them already?
What will happen to us, the two of us, as we march through the days making lunches, changing diapers and doing work as the dreams we have of each other weather and fade?
What will happen when the wind arrives, rolling over us like an ocean wave, inarguable, unstoppable, unfeeling until its tail whips past like a lost kite and spins into the eastern sky, and we're left alone in the silence of a new day?