I came home tonight to signs of a strange wind having blown through here. There's no serious damage, save a dead yellow poplar down in the woods. The yard is littered with leaves that didn't come from nearby trees. There's even a fern leaf torn from some spot on the forest floor and deposited in the middle of our lawn. And yet there's no damage to the fragile tomatoes and beans in the garden, not a single shorn leaf. Oh, and the downed poplar in the woods—it fell westward, indicating this strange breath had blown from the east, counter to normal. I must make an ambulatory inspection tomorrow—Henry Thoreau style—and see what other strange mysteries I see.
[Update: The next morning did not reveal any more damage or surprises. I'm thinking it didn't take much to push over the standing dead poplar tree.]