With closed eyes

The rising tide crashes fiercely against rock pools.  An unabating power drives it on.  The waves loom tall and bad-tempered, sounding hostile, but perhaps more aerated than furious.  The noise is intense. The images remarkably clear.

Until I open my eyes. 

And then I see the same ill temper driving through the trees, listening to the branches being driven with nowhere to go.  It's playing.  There's no bursting gusts but it is asking to be noticed, that's for sure.

We walk the last path home from the moors where, as I approach, the horse chestnuts reach down their long fingers to touch my hands.  I smile and take them one by one.  Some soft and green with others crisped and gold; a gentle brush with nature as they stand their sturdy ground.  

Reaching home, I close the door on the tempestuous countryside. 
My senses still.