Raising his voice against the din, the postman says the weather is to worsen, that the winds will mount into a category that we in Ireland call “storm force.” Streams flow down the graveled driveway; spied even from the distance of the windows, the road is awash with small rivers floated with the detritus that is autumn, flukes and brown-orange leaves, yew needles blackened by rain.When, for a moment, the wind breathes in, I glimpse smoke against the gorsed and heathered hill that says our neighbors, here in the Wicklow mountains, are in and at the fire. And then the wind resumes. I almost wait for the power to cut out, lines clipped by branches broken or snagged: I have filled kettle, water jug, a pot, knowing that if it cuts out our pump will cut out too, and the well, not dry, will seem so. And so these slight preparations.