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March 6, 1997
Those March winds everybody talks about are here. Trees are swaying. The radio is broadcasting high wind warnings. The wind blows right through the zipperless blue jacket. The demented orange wacko is cowering in his teepee. He hates high winds. The light pole outside my window is swaying back and forth ominously.
Earlier today there were about a hundred or so starlings in the tree across the parking lot singing away. They're gone now.
Every once in awhile a piece of trash of some kind flies by the window. This would not be so alarming if my office weren't on the second floor.