The Windy Morning written by: Eric Robert Nolan @ericrnolan1   The gales cry, their sounds rise, so strangely like the wailing of children. The gales have ripped a rift in purgatory. Along the low hill’s haze and indistinct palette of grays, the thinning slate shapes are either columns of rain, or a quorum of waifish wraiths. Condemned but inculpable are those little figures — long ago natives maybe — in an ironic, insufficient sacrament: this obscuring rain’s parody of baptism. … Continue reading The Windy Morning