pangea in solstice

Old Fart Winter is blowing hard from the north in Milwaukee tonight. From inside a building, it often sounds like a woman screaming. On the outside, like a crowd of billions cheering at the rock concert on Doomsday. Continents of leaves collect in the gutters and in front of buildings, following some higher mathematical pattern. They are dispersed by the howling gales into smaller colonies that then grow just as dense. The gibbous moon moves against the breaking cloud cover while cyclones raise dead leaves tens of feet from the sidewalk into the air. If only I could find my way to the core of one of the air columns and be tossed carelessly into the night like one of them.