THE WIND HITS HARDEST at night. It whistles. It jostles. It howls and grunts. Its sound is ferocious. In the mornings, you look weary eyed outside as the coffee maker makes its coffee, curious to see what the wind has carried away with it. It took me some time this morning to realize that the trampoline was not where it should be. It was perhaps a  hundred yards from its usual location. And then, while my back was turned, the wind pushed it over and into the fields. When I went to retrieve it, folding down the branches of the thorny bushes with my feat, I felt its metallic heaviness in my hands. I had to roll it on its side like a wheel, but then the wind was catching in it, blowing it even farther, like a ship’s sail. It was true work to move that trampoline back to its place. There was heaving and ho-ing. When I did reach the starting point, I noticed the neighbors aluminum trash can had blown into our sandbox, and that the lid of the sandbox had been flipped upside down in place.

And so it went with white caps in the bays and sounds, and lunatic photographers on the beaches trying to image it up close without becoming tomorrow’s headline. There were fallen skeletal branches in the roads, and dry corn leaves blowing across the ways like tumbleweed. The cold gales bit into the bamboo groves, put the traffic lights to dance, tousled the hairs of the dead deer on the road sides. In the evening, I asked the East Marion shop seller if it was usually this windy out on the North Fork. She said that it is often this windy but that this year has been particularly windy. “It’s a narrow strip of land jutting out into the ocean,” she said, looking very serene and Novemberish and shrugging. “What can you do?”

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