The Storm Breaks at Last
This is for Libertine and the others who have admitted how sad they are; and for those who haven't, but are, as well...
She walked out onto the porch. For three days now, the sky had been every possible shade of grey with myriad textures of clouds. Out one door, the mountains were draped with dusty grey shrouds; peeking out from behind the peaks were thunderclouds of off-white, the last vestiges of fair weather that are often so deceptive.
Countless threads of darker grey virgas sent their moisture to the hills below, speaking to the possibility of rain, yet still not promising it. Dark stratus-cumulus leviathans crept slowly toward her, while lower streams of vapor above the river marched westward below them.
An occasional rumble of far-off thunder meant rain somewhere; a tease, really, as only a spritz or two of drops had materialized so far. At least the raging spring winds of dust had finally ended, and some blessed rain had come. Her skin was still parched from that time: the faint tributaries of a desert-dweller's skin could be smoothed by lotion, but that ritual was often forgotten in the midst of her increasing unease.
So much to do this time of year as the garden hit its peak, the fruits and veggies calling to be picked and preserved for the coming long winter. She tried to pay it all enough attention, although lately some days it all took second place to her other life...her oddly more necessary life.













