All is in motion out there. Leaves torn from trees by the sudden gusts soar and plunge through the air, all the while they trace the patterns of a helter-skelter arabesque. Bared branches wave and bow. Those too close to each other butt their crowned heads, shaking out leaves and the odd birds. The crows, though, are nowhere to be seen and they are screechless, letting the wind whistle its one-toned melody. The clouds, windborne as they are, throng and mass on the horizon. It’s a storm that’s not quite steady on its wind-webbed feet, as if it were still just warming up for that riotous run into a long night.