Storm Coming

I've been out here all afternoon in this hammock, reading and trying to get my mind to unhook from the things that pester and attack it, a little like the real-life mosquitoes and yellow jackets I try to ward off with limited success. The sky is now taking on that bruised, boiling quality and all the tree frog choruses are singing. The oven-like heat of the day has begun to dissipate at last, and the sun is still visible as a neon-red ball through the breaks in trees to the west.  

I can hear today's thunderstorm walking over the eastern ridge, its distant and irregular booms coming closer, and I know this peaceful idyll won't last much longer, this moment of cool sanctuary between the heat of the day and whatever torrent is striding across the hilltops. 

I wish you were here to see the eastern sky darken, the first jagged bolts flicker down to touch the the ground. I wish you were cradled in this hammock, too, listening to the pleading song of all the things that cry out for rain and the distant road noise of late evening traffic hurrying home to beat the storm. I wish you were here to smell the sweetness of the rain as it slowly fills the air and watch the colors of everything, the deep green grass, the blue and red bottles on the bottle tree, the orange lantanas, the scrap metal chicken with the Coca-Cola sign tail, all of it, intensify and become miniature jewels. 

The storm is closing the distance now, and my little yellow dog is reminding me that it's time to go inside.  Watching the day melt away into the rain, listening to the soft susurration of the tree above me at it stretches into the sky and prepares for what is to come has been a soothing thing, something I needed.  Inside the house, there will be things to clean, feed, and take care of, myself included.  The dogs lead the way to the porch door as the wind begins to make the live oak leaves hiss, and we all go in together leaving the empty yard for whatever will walk there next.