The Bise Again

The Bise Again

I remember singing a song in our seventh grade music class where the entire grade was in the auditorium. The lyrics included the phrase “tender breezes blow”. There is nothing tender about The Bise that is roaring outside. Roaring to a point that I have raised the volume on the CD to drown it out. Isabelle Boulay is too gentle a singer. I need someone like Garou with his raspy voice or the entire Berlin Symphony. The house has a fault and when the Bise is at its worst it sounds as if a siren is going off over the toilet.

The sky is brilliant blue as the trees jump in the air.

The cat considers the only sensible place to be is on my bed, and if I want to share, she might, notice might, be willing to negotiate a small space for me.

I need to go out in this weather to get the mail. Although I usually walk, it strikes me as smarter to use the car, although I picture flapping my arms at the top of the hill and being lifted across the lake into France.

I do understand why people go mad in winds. The noise after a while STOPS being interesting and has moved into irritating.