Watching the wind waving its arms in the poplars, shivering the long grass.

Listening to the roaring, like fighter planes, bounce around the solid grey sky.

Poplars rant and rage, hair flying, and I watch, through their open fingers, raised to fend off the gusts, birds’ nests high in the spindle branches bob and sway in the waves.

Window shutters may slam, tiles fly from the roof and things thud down inside the chimneys, but I have never seen a bird’s nest fly from its moorings.

Dry twigs and grasses

woven with bird beak

safer than houses