In the morning the rain came, after yesterday’s sun-filled skies, and out the window across the valley the clouds were moving gray on gray like something wild and mythic; the rumble of thunder filling the valley first. Then came the hail, thick and fast. The poplars bowed toward the ground, the ruts in the road filled, overflowed, spread out into the fields making shimmering lakes where the hay grew tall last summer, and where, for months now, the snow has drifted softly, white on white.
I stood at the window watching, almost late for work, but unable to tear myself away to flip the frying eggs, froth the milk for coffee, or go. I stood and watched the valley disappear in sheets of rain. Stared, as the sky above became dark, darker, until my small white house felt like a child’s toy tucked inside the navy coat pocket of heaven, lightening glinting through a tear in the fabric of the sky like a searchlight.
The storm lasted for minutes, maybe 10 minutes, and then just as quickly it passed on, leaving behind drenched leaves and the pale golden light of morning, and I rushed to gather my things.
I carried my toast to the car balanced on the lip of my coffee mug; did a K turn in the muddy drive, and left, to find the river near my work flooded and roaring with the thunder the storm had left behind.
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About the author: Christina Rosalie is completing her first book, Life In The Present Tense: A Field Guide To Now, that will be published in 2012. She blogs at MyTopography.com.
