The cloak of autumn dressed our heads with swiftly moving deep gray clouds, the kind skimming the skies so close to us that it was tempting to reach up and see if they would stream through the fingers like water. From time to time they would congregate and spit out a little water, just enough to make a driver turn on the windshield wipers for a couple swipes before the blades started squealing across dry glass.
Then the wind shifted.
The clouds collected themselves together then, banging into one another, blending together, joining forces. It was tempting to pick out a movie for later and I could smell the popcorn, but there was one more stop to make (while gas is still ridiculously cheap; who knows how long that will last) and I truly wanted to be home before the waterworks started in earnest.
The acacia trees have started to change into fall finery; feathery grey-green leaves are tinged along the edges with hints of scarlet and pumpkin and ripple in the wind, then dance on a gust. I barely had time to notice, but I did.
Soon I was settled in my worn recliner, kicked back and relaxed when the epicenter of light and noise burst overhead. Fat raindrops beat against the window, sheets of water blew down the street, chasing the water gushing along the curbs.
The storms came in waves. Strobes, noise, downpours then silence. My hubby brought me tea, and I started reading Flora and Ulysses by Kate Dicamillo and for the afternoon all the new horrors of the world outside my door melted down the street with the torrents.
Tomorrow they will find me again, but I will have new, well-watered strength.