The Weather’s Wrath

There’s no rest for the wind tonight. It flails between the trees and houses, making itself known with shrill, tortured screams, as if in a dramatic bid for the town’s attention. It thrusts rain at my window, a canvas for its craft, and the streetlights take on the role of supporting cast, illuminating the droplets that distort my view. Headlights from passing cars fan sixteen panes across the ceiling, casting the room with a glow that flickers from white to red as the taillights pick up the torch. I lie awake, shielded from the draft beneath a duvet, a bedspread, and a blanket, wondering if the single-glazed glass will survive the weather’s wrath.