A page from my diary
On that particular winter night, the wind howled like a crazed being and knocked against the tree that leaned on my window. The branches knocked on the panes with every gust as if to wake me up. But I was wide awake.
“I am not sleeping but trying to decipher the language of the wind and rain.” I wanted to say to the tree, which had brown branches resolutely waiting for the spring to fill her…
