A storm is coming on. The sky is working itself up, brooding, dark gray, an itch that wants to be scratched, a tension that's stretching thinner. The houses, cars, the street look like pieces on a Monopoly Board, waiting for something to happen to them. You can see the future in the trees' top branches, helpless in the wind's hands, in the small, flying scatters of leaves, in a flight of wrens broken into black scraps, hear it in the wind's low growl as it noses the walls of homes, prowls the canopies of the gum trees and maples.
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