Deeplier, Deeplier

Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.
(Wallace Stevens, The Region November)

I have not had this much hair in a long time. It's not long hair, but it's long by Curt Standards. For the past twelve years or so, after long college hair and a rather gruesome Marty Stouffer beard, I practically shaved my head and have kept my hair close-cropped ever since. This past Fall I decided to grow it out, just to see how long I could go before hacking it off again (it's never more than a month or two) and I've recently rediscovered what it's like to have the wind blow through my hair rather than across my slowly expanding forehead.

Tonight my hair was all over the place. The wind was tremendous, shaking the trees, roaring through the branches, erasing the clouds from the sky in minutes, leaving only faint smears, like smudges of chalk on a blackboard. The park was littered with sticks and dragging Duncan through it was challenge. There were so many differing agendas on our walk tonight that I'm still not sure which direction we went in. I was plowing ahead, leaning into the gale, squinting through the shrapnel of once-leaves, pursing my lips to keep from inhaling bark; Duncan wanted only to stop and chew or chase stray leaves that whipped past us like tiny bouncing cars; my hair wanted to do it's own thing, puff up big or blow back flat.

We forced our way home, stalking two bunnies on the way, and collapsed in heaps on the couch, wind-whipped and tired. It'll be good sleep tonight.