It Had Hardly Rained for Weeks...

... and the earth had begun to break in jagged fissures, splitting patches of grass into miniature islands, creating thin canyons. (Whimsically, I found myself thinking about scale and perspective, remembering the firefly's arduous journey across my arm.) Driving on old country roads, black tar rose from gravel: forming boils that crackled beneath my tires... a sound reminiscent of popcorn ringing in an aluminum pan... or of wringing a sheet of plastic packing bubbles with my small childhood hands.

Last night, minutes after midnight: a deluge.



I scampered to my outdoor painting studio and pulled a canvas beneath my shirt to protect it from rain. I slid boxes of acrylics and liquid lead beneath the porch overhangs. Then, hearing hail, I darted back inside.

I shifted to the (enclosed) porch to comfort my anxious golden retriever... listening carefully for any signs of intensification: a howling train-whistle wind -- or sudden silence. Finding neither, I watched (delighted) as the darkened windows glinted with reflected light.



The flashes mounted until the night sky was rarely even dark, but caught instead in flickering suspension: like a jar of captured fireflies -- or a flurry of photographs beneath a dim streetlight.