In my wind house, I can see almost everything. The windows wrap in panorama. I am at least a mile high.

The clouds out there are bright silver and moving fast. They curl in on themselves and eat their own hearts. The trees thrash their bodies like tortured souls or wild lovemakers or both.

I can see almost everything here. The windows of my wind house rattle, the roof creaks. The house is built for this, but today’s wind is not like past winds. The house sways.

Down there, centuries-old buildings topple and roll across the landscape end over end. There are lakes where there were no lakes before.

My children are playing in the room below me. I had planned to take them to a movie tomorrow. The movie theater rolls past, crumbling.

If something happens to my wind house, we will have to float away on a garbage sack. There will be no time for parachutes.  

 

 

 

 

 

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