THE STORMS

The storms will come and wash away the dirt, grime, and mud from little asphalt places. First they will begin with a few drops that cross along the windows of the eateries or other small afternoon sanctuaries. Patrons don’t take too much notice. The single drop, then the multiple, well they have their own beauty and cadence,- like the wind, like the rising arcing sun or the noonday bits of petals that float across the flaxen fields like bubbles, like a dream, like a bubble-dream or dream bubble…

But then ferocious and beautiful winds descend and with them the real rains. It’s like that,- and there are moments when the tree branches bob up and down too fast,- not really made for that- and look at them speak. Are the trees in the far and far places really asking for help then, yelling out to an unknown saviour? All the cars and persons and dogs, bikes, other- file out and along the one lane highway. The rain upsets some frogs, some snakes, and they can be seen hopping or slithering across the small pathways.

It goes like that, and the dark settles in quickly as it was not only the time for the storm but had been late dusk. Then the sky, a dark immense room, gets turned on by lightning. Flash. It’s odd to see the trunks and far off fields, the wires from wooden fence posts, the colorful wildflowers and more- lit up like that for a moment. It’s like a dream, a movie scene, atmospheric and cinematographic at once, but more- though there is a second of what seems against odd, like quietude in the light- it’s nevertheless musical then. 

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