I woke suddenly at 3 a.m. to the sound of distant roaring. What could it be? The broad moon shone like a coin behind the shivering silhouetted trees. The bright night air was dense with glowing fog. And then suddenly the distant roar shifted its haunches and began to run. Now I knew it was the wind, transforming in an instant from a steady blow into a racing gale. As it tore into our clearing, I watched the clouds begin to twist in the moonlight, the trees weep and tear their hair as if they were a Sophoclean chorus, the glimmering ground fog spiral into a veil, masking the trees that only moments earlier had been naked under the moonlight. Now the wind dashed at the veil, shredding it, and again I saw the trees moaning and tearing their hair; saw the clouds dancing like bacchantes; saw threads of mist unspooling into the restless air.

For perhaps half an hour this beautiful frenzy battered the night. And then the gale raced away.