Spring storms can be the scariest.
They come suddenly when you least expect it. Everything is sunny and bright and then you see it. A cold dark cloud that stretches endlessly across the horizon. You know it's cold because a frigid mist cuts through the air and sends chills across sun-warmed shoulders.
A breeze, then dark gigantic cumulus clouds. The wind picks up and lends a chill that has you hugging yourself to keep warm. Drops of rain plop down, and before you know it, you're in a deluge. It's cold, wet, and dark right in the midst of what began as a sunny day.
The teasing morphs into threats.
And you prepare. As quickly as you know how.
You run for shelter as fast as the hard wind that now is picking up your hair and lifting your clothes.
Night sky in midday is lit up by electric currents in their best jagged bolts. Winds come from all directions, rush off, circle back again with suomo raindrops, just before the hail starts pounding, beating down tender sprouts and cutting ball moss off tree branches. Ice rocks pelt the earth, a rain of marbles that rickoshay off the hard ground in a war dance. Things that don't normally fly are fluttering and flapping in the strong wind.
Please God. No tornado.
It stops almost as suddenly as it arose. The sun separates the clouds with long and lighted fingers, arranging them into forms and colors that distract momentarily from the task at hand, that of surveying the damage. The sky is blue again and the horizon reflects the sheen of the sun, golden. Gray limbs spread over chartreuse and emerald.
Pruning makes way for new growth.
Springs bubble up, cutting pathways that carry away debris. The sun's rays are fingers that lift drooping flower heads, standing them upright.
Peace. A smile. A fresh start.
Out of the storm now, everything is clear.
They come suddenly when you least expect it. Everything is sunny and bright and then you see it. A cold dark cloud that stretches endlessly across the horizon. You know it's cold because a frigid mist cuts through the air and sends chills across sun-warmed shoulders.
A breeze, then dark gigantic cumulus clouds. The wind picks up and lends a chill that has you hugging yourself to keep warm. Drops of rain plop down, and before you know it, you're in a deluge. It's cold, wet, and dark right in the midst of what began as a sunny day.
The teasing morphs into threats.
And you prepare. As quickly as you know how.
You run for shelter as fast as the hard wind that now is picking up your hair and lifting your clothes.
Night sky in midday is lit up by electric currents in their best jagged bolts. Winds come from all directions, rush off, circle back again with suomo raindrops, just before the hail starts pounding, beating down tender sprouts and cutting ball moss off tree branches. Ice rocks pelt the earth, a rain of marbles that rickoshay off the hard ground in a war dance. Things that don't normally fly are fluttering and flapping in the strong wind.
Please God. No tornado.
It stops almost as suddenly as it arose. The sun separates the clouds with long and lighted fingers, arranging them into forms and colors that distract momentarily from the task at hand, that of surveying the damage. The sky is blue again and the horizon reflects the sheen of the sun, golden. Gray limbs spread over chartreuse and emerald.
Pruning makes way for new growth.
Springs bubble up, cutting pathways that carry away debris. The sun's rays are fingers that lift drooping flower heads, standing them upright.
Peace. A smile. A fresh start.
Out of the storm now, everything is clear.
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