It comes suddenly – rising concussions against the walls of the house, followed by the usual glances outside, the tone in the voice: “Wind’s getting up.” Autumn gales aren’t unusual; perhaps we notice them more now, from enforced acquaintance with the same air, the same space, the same view.

This one is different, though. The suddenness and the severity make me cease everything and stare, at first with curiosity, then concern. Stout-limbed horse chestnut trees that have stood steadfast for decades bow stiffly, suddenly brittle; brush-topped silver birches are a flurry of motion, like dusters waved at a cobweb.

Yet still the winds build. For a moment, strange notions begin to grip – this isn’t just a wind; something has happened, something is coming. Perhaps it won’t stop getting stronger; perhaps it will continue plucking trees from the ground, ripping the roof from the house, scratching us off our plot. Extreme thoughts outside a tornado belt, or an apocalypse movie. But then, nature in its swing persuades you to elemental thoughts, not logical ones.

A branch comes down off a pine and lands in the garden. I look with apprehension at the other trees, some of them old and very large.

Still the wind builds. I look up at the sky. It is filled with leaves. The gale has come at a moment when leaves are starting to crisp and twist on the trees. Now, stripped from their branches, they are filling the sky in clouds moving north-east, like a strange migration – a migration from one season to the next, ripped off indecisive trees by this demon wind, brutally hastening winter.

It ends as suddenly as it started. Local news erupts with tales of a freak storm, of trees falling on cars, lucky escapes. Outside, our world seems suddenly a little more skeletal.

Even away from her grandest, fiery spectacles, nature can make us cower, make us fear. And when all is done and our oft-forgotten fragility is reasserted, however briefly, she can make us thankful that this time, it was only the leaves.