Now I hear it.
The ice, like rain against the window. Only it makes a different sound, hard and sharp instead of soft and round. Then the familiar creak and swing, only faster than usual, of the steel hook that holds my Yes/No Dress which hangs outside my studio.
Later when the wind comes from the west, it will be the tapping of the carpet tacks that stick out of the dress like thorns, on the clapboard.
The wind comes into my studio too.
First, though the yellow clapboard where, for a moment, it fills the space between the outer and inner wall. Then it’s pushed through the unfinished Wainscott walls of the old schoolhouse.
I hear it before I feel it.
In another moment the whole building seems to rock a little, the walls groan with the sound of wood separating.
It’s here I think, the ice storm that’s hitting more than half the country.
Then it’s quiet again. Almost too quiet.
So I go back to work and wait.
