It's the third day in a row with cold Santana winds roaring through these mountains. So what am I doing? Writing poems about the wind. The devil wind, cold and dry, brings freezing temperatures and red flag alerts. The fire danger is very high, but so far, the only major fire is in an area northeast of Los Angeles, some 50 miles from here.
Last October we got evacuated for a major forest fire. In 2003 we lost thousands of trees and hundreds of homes to the Old Fire. So I keep praying, while shivering in this drafty little
mountain cabin, that the evil wind will die down and the destructive fires stay far away from here.
Another blast slashes through the trees and shakes pine cones down onto my roof.
The cats huddle on my bed, daring me to TRY to get under the covers. Unmovable, with glaring eyes, they stare me down. I go back to my desk and write another poem, then kill it with the mighty DELETE key.
I'm bundled up in three sweaters, yet still shivering with cold, especially when another blast of wind finds its way in through the cracks and chinks of my drafty mountain cabin.
Yet I love this place, these mountains, this
forest, and even my drafty little cabin.
~~~
