A STORM MOVES OVER THE LAKE

The first sign is the wind picking up. Tall plants in the garden start to bend, and the remnants of Tibetan flags on the porch flutter their last few prayers. On the lake, whitecaps roll over. As the tempo rises, birds chasing down insects in the grass try to keep facing front, to keep their feathers from being whipped back, then give up and fly off. The wind pushes the whitecaps ever higher until they turn into roiling waves that slam against the armor stones along the breakwall, sending huge arcs of splashover onto the lawn. A squirrel, his once-fluffy fur pasted flat against his rodent-like tail, races off for shelter. There's a brief lull when it almost seems the storm might pass, but then the rain comes in sudden heavy sheets. It pounds the waves into submission and beats a steady tattoo on the garage roof.














After the storm, more leaves and small branches lie scattered all over, everything is dripping and even a little cleaner, fresher, but still the sun refuses to come out the rest of the day.