The sirens return every few minutes. The wind chimes down the block are still going strong, a persistent jangle. The wind drowns them out in a roar, on and off, wildly swinging the telephone wires and power lines and myriad other cables. The street lights are on for the moment, as is the power inside, and with it internet. But down the block the stoplights are blinking red. Stop, go; stop, go. Jangle jangle go the wind chimes.
Inside the lights are on, we just ran the microwave, the heat is still working, we have hot water. On the table are oatmeal raisin cookies with a generous dose of cinnamon--three dozen, less however many we ate. In the refrigerator are two casseroles of pumpkin soup, cooked in the pumpkin itself, which seeped out into the broiler pan and overflowed onto the bottom of the oven. On the counter, the glass pitcher and the soup-pot and all the large bottles stand, filled with drinking water. We have not so much prepared, as hoarded, making all the use we can of these necessary conveniences (power, water, gas), while we can.
The wind picks up again, wheezing between the houses and terrorizing the trees. The wind chimes jangle. I consider again whether we should move our bed away from the window. Is it inevitable that the tree I stare at every morning from my bed should fall tonight, and hit the house? The storm is passing. . .
The wind chimes jangle again as my husband runs water (it still runs!) in the kitchen sink, and opens the refrigerator (still cold!) for something. I consider, and decide in favor of caution, as I always do.