Wind blew and the rain came, ferocious in the night, knocked out the power, roused the dogs, blew open the front door. Poor Charlie, the wind blew him, chilled up the stairs, and the power came on and the alarm buzzed, buzzed, buzzed me awake, even before the dogs ventured forth and a screen door on my bedroom balcony broke from its frame and knocked and knocked to come off, and the sky grew lighter, but not light, and we waited a bit for the trees to calm down with the wind, what a howling racket they caused, but we went out, we drove up to Charles Link trail, and the wind settled, the rain had stopped, and the branches were blown all around the ground, but the leaves on the trees wanted to cling, yellow and red, and the puddles were thick with the blown off assortments of colorful leaves, and it was cloudy, but such a golden light wouldn’t be dulled, not now, not yet, not today, with the berries, all kinds reddening or yellowing, we trotted along, we didn’t want to go in, we didn’t have to rush and we were glad, October, this foliage, it won’t last, but when we did come in, we got so many things done that needed to be done, including my monthly newsletter essay - I wrote it in the quiet house after the wind, and I read e-mails from last night’s writers from the critique group, about their gratitude for our special time with each other’s writing, and we even had to take a second walk, near dusk, to stretch our legs and romp a bit and see what the storm knocked around, and what it left standing, like one of our benches in the meadow, toppled over, but not the arch, facing the river, strong as ever.