dead-leaf slap

A restless, relentless wind. The clouds have seen something horrible,
and hurry away. Later they wear thick, woolen coats, turn up their collars
and avert their eyes. I’m not here.

A cold wind tugs at my clothes, slaps me in the face. I step out of the car
and dead leaves plaster against my chest. I pick them off, but soon I’m
pushed back inside.