Here in the Rocky Mountains, we've had record winds. Over at the tiny hamlet of Ward, not but a dozen miles as the raven flies, they clocked the blasts last week at 108mph. That's hurricane force, by anyone's standards. The weather-person says it's the La Niña jet stream that's causing this upheaval. Wind pounds against the side of our cabin each night, the pines groan as they try to bend and flex against its force, and everything that is not nailed down or over two tons in weight has been picked up and cast down the slope of the meadow in front, hopefully not striking any of the five bull elk or the family of deer that like to nest in the tall grass there after dark. These are the kinds of winds that land a house on a witch.

Wildfires erupted on the slopes of the foothills outside of Boulder just two days ago, and the conflagration created—for those who might be biblically inclined—a preview of what hell must surely look like.

What a strange time!

These winds make me think of all the change we are experiencing in this country. A virtual revolution of undoing, redoing, make-doing, and must-doing is taking place because of economic factors, social-cultural factors (like wars), oops-factors, unfortunate factors, and idiot factors (as in the can't-get-gone-soon-enough-current-but-soon-to-be-ex administration.)

The winds of change are blowing. Forceful winds, hurricane winds, vicious, deadly, scary winds, fiery winds. And things are being swept away, burned away, wiped out, eliminated, cut back, depreciated, torn down, and changed. We are learning that it is probably time (or even past time) to tighten our belts, or more aptly, to fasten our belts and hold on for a rough ride.

Here in the mountains, in a rare moment of calm, I go out to survey the damage and retrieve whatever blown-away items I can find. The bear-proof trash container is down on its side yards from where it should be, but it is fine. The cars are on all four feet, and didn't blow over, although I did see one of them shudder when a particularly ferocious gale whipped through. The wheelbarrow is still in pretty good shape despite the fact that it is fifty yards from where it normally sits, so I wheel it back up the meadow, collecting items that have also been relocated. A solar light still works, even after its mounting pole got taken out by the sign at the bottom of the drive. That sign was mounted on a braced four-by-four that was sheared in half. The bluebird houses, bird feeders and watering stations have all taken serious damage. The cedar bench caromed onto its back and to one side. A heavy stone lantern toppled into three pieces. Lawn and deck furniture have been thrown around and rooted in new locations. My wolf Tiwa's assortment of toys and bones have disappeared, no doubt sent downslope to be enjoyed by the coyotes when they find them. The snow that was piled up on the deck and around the house is mostly gone, blown away.

Later, I hear Tiwa making a racket outside and go out to see what is troubling him. The moon is near full, and for once, the air is still. Not ten yards from where we stand, a red fox sits calmly looking at the wolf and me. At his feet is one of Tiwa's rope chewies. The wolf is furious that the tod has his toy. But the fox sits still in spite of Tiwa's vigorous yipping and prancing. "Did you find yourself a prize?" I ask the fox. He lowers his head, picks up the rope toy in his mouth and stands, wagging his beautiful bushy tail. And then, he turns and toddles away with his newfound treasure.

Redistribution of wealth? Or are some of the things that really matter to us just getting blown away?