The wind is still howling and the loft is shaking. I can barely see the horses outside the window 50 feet away because the dust is so thick...

...there is also a storm on the mountain heading this way. I love weather like this. Love you.

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Below are the first two paragraphs of the novel, The Body Artist, by Don DeLilio (which I think are terrific and make me look forward to the story that follows...)

"Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running lustre on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.

It happened this final morning that they were here at the same time, in the kitchen, and they shambled past each other to get things out of cabinets and drawers and then waited one for the other by the sink or fridge, still a little puddled in dream melt, and she ran tap water over the blueberries bunched in her hand and closed her eyes to breathe the savor rising."