A harsh wind blew in from the east flattening the young spring plants and laying waste old trees, shrubs. Anything of beauty, to mark a landscape beyond the crest of a hill, the bend of a road, was gone. The wind continued. Power lines snapped so that we were reduced to eavesdropping on remote signals on hand cranked radios. We lived in the basement then. Uncorking our finest wines without a sense of ceremony or occasion but simply to relieve the numbing dread. And then the wind stopped. We stepped outside, cautious to avoid the heavy falling branches which were eager to make widows of us all. Raising our faces upwards, we felt for a moment as if the sun had the power to chase away the mold and clean up the mess.