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.
The Cloud Messenger (Meghadūta) is a lyric poem by the respected Indian poet, Kālidāsa. The poem centers around a yaksa in exile. Longing for his beloved, waiting for him on a Himalayan mountain, he asks a cloud to take a message to her. The sights he tells the cloud it will see on its way make up most of the poem.
The idea of recording observations appeals to me. I thought The Cloud Messenger was the perfect title for a blog about the journey that we all make as we move through our days.
I'm a baby boomer who grew up dancing in the streets of Detroit during the classic Motown years, lived beside the Rocky Mountains for many years, now retired and living (and writing full time) in S. Ontario. I have one blog for rock 'n' roll oldies, and one for nature, poetry and life along the Lake.