Late, on the tenth day of darkness, something changed. I heard a sound of water slapping leaves.
I took my dinner of left-over pizza and laid on slabs of home-grown tomatoes, poured a tall glass of wine, and headed to the front porch.
The air was still acrid to the tongue. Thick clouds above thick smoke had the street lights on. I sat down and watched fat drops of water splash the pavement and then stop. A promise, nothing more.
Then thunder, lumbering in from the west. Lightning high up - cloud to cloud.
The storm attempted to be ominous.
But after the last year, and the last 10 days, we are sorta spook-proof.
So I slipped aside and enjoyed that last light of a perfect summer evening that the calendar insisted. And I knew by the clock that the sun had not set so I lifted my glass to the blue skies above.
The tomatoes gave evidence. Tomatoes never lie.
I accept the promise of the first rain drops.
Hi Peggy. You sent me your book a few years ago and I sent you mine. Your book was introduced to me by a man I only knew online as Nate Swift. Nate hasn't posted in several months on the message board we both frequented and I fear the Covid worst. Was hoping you know what happened with him.
Friend Bill A. in Medford reports that Nate commented on a FB post as recently as yesterday. So he is up and functioning.
Thanks much, Peggy. I know a few folks will be relieved to hear he's still on the planet in recognizable form. ;)Post a Comment