Time of the Storm

The wind, ill-tempered, wraps itself hard around everything. The woman wrapped in a chador walks with her head bowed, not looking around, down the lane: black, the color of the thick black clouds above the outskirts, stubbornly holding the chador under her chin. The wild wind circles the woman, howling, it storms into her chador: up into the air rise the skirt, the chador...