Drunk with its own power and full of bully and bluster Sunday’s wind staggered across the fields bumping into barns shaking foundations and pulling off shingles. It ravaged the trees with clumsy hands ripping the delicate fabric of their leaves and stripping the branches to leave them bruised and naked to the sky. Monday dawned clear on the hangover left behind. The old apple tree, cleaved once again, stands divided. A broken limb, moss pocked and hoary, lies crushed and broken upon the piles of leafy lace. The white of wet wood bleeds resin. The feathered crown of blue spruce is laid low, torn from a usurped giant too large to hide from the wind’s fury. The echoes of violence, though pale, still linger while all about the birds peek cautious heads out looking for the all clear.