11.13.2003 - 4:53 p.m.

I am walking from the library down past the pond, towards the art building. My light jacket is snapping like a flag or a sail, but despite its billowing is letting the wind right on through. I have one hand curled in a pocket, the other holding a fistful of hair. Coming towards me on the walk is a colleague of mine bundled in something large, tweed, and quite possibly made for a man. I give her that half-smile that acknowledges shared hardship.

�It was a dark and stormy night,� she responds in a mock-scary voice, making me think of my trip earlier today, when I had to walk past the pine stumps from the hurricane while the trunks above me creaked.

Her white hair is glowing, there is gold light over the water, and the cold just makes me feel awake. �Well, it�s certainly November,� I reply. If she answers, the wind takes her words from me.

I turn away from the lake onto the part of the path known as �The Wind Tunnel� because of the way it runs straight up the slope from the water. My bare heels sting, my hair thinks I am going too slowly but believe me, I am hurrying. I do not think to look up at the swaying pines this time but at the few lost pieces of the old ones, the cut logs that rolled into the creek/marsh and will never be collected. They look so natural and worn now, brown, waterlogged, and sprinkled with fallen yellow leaves. I start thinking about how nice it will feel to walk into the door, trailing leaves and a final gust of wind, to have the indoor air begin to thaw my skin.

I decide that tomorrow I will check the weather in the morning, and perhaps braid my hair up.

-stonebridge

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