I’m in Austin for the holidays. A front is moving down, and the winds are whipping the pecan trees. It is Love!
THE WIND.
by Emily Dickinson
Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
Confessions of a Hedge Witch 
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