Saturday Storm

A sudden rush of wind. A startling drop in temperature. The darkening of sky.

I stand at the edge of the pool, gazing up at the top of a grand oak tree. The very first pulse of the storm travels through its boughs, the silver undersides of the leaves twisting and screaming in the wind. Then the delayed arrival of debris and bark, needles from the neighboring pines, falling through that great expanse of dim sky. And then the rain drops, light and few at first, then gathering into torrents ruthlessly thrust by the backing wind.

The deluge is swift, the amount of water the air has held is immense. It is no longer safe to be outside.

Back in the kitchen, the rain beats relentlessly against a skylight. I slide a tray of red potatoes and Brussels sprouts into the oven for roasting. Andy managed to grill the tuna in advance of the storm. I took down the patio awning a few hours ago, and just like that our summer has gone away. The lights are blinking now, the weather advisories are beeping across Andy’s television in the other room. The sky bleeds into night hours before it should.

I never thought it would come this quickly.

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