Wind in the Trees

The wind pushes the tree tops around like upside down mops. No crows in sight, for now. As I write this, as if psychic, my puppy brings me her stuffed toy—a crow that, when pressed at its center, emits a realistic Caw, then another Caw, then, a beat later, a sharp Kee-Waak, the crow’s warning call. Or maybe it’s Hello there! Or: Fuck-off, you dumb human attached to that even dumber quadraped. But back out on the road, for the most part empty this late morning, wind and rain keep the dog walkers inside. Maybe it’s the news about the Paris shootings, but I keep looking up at the swaying trees to see if a bomb’s about to go off. Still, a man’s got to be walked by his dogs. What would we do if a tree did come down? Which way to run? If I look up again to see how the tree’s falling, it might be too late. Or I might just run right into its doomed trajectory. The dogs strain on, oblivious, excited by the wind and the rain, or by my hurried step, or by some strange smell new to their encyclopedic snouts, propelling them forward like fish in a silty river brought high up its banks by the rain.