Across the road towards the Southside of town, the horizon is the color of a brand new bruise.
Undeniably, a storm is coming and like the signs warning of a coming backhand across your cheek or a vicious grab, you know this color, you are familiar with the warning.
In my little corner I sit and listen to the distant noise of thunder.
Sounding like men strong arming an old chest across the attic floor.
I am quiet. I’m well. I am safe.
Waiting for the rain has become a favorite thing. The air brushing my shoulder, a kiss-like surprise.
A drop, is it here?
I will it to come slowly, to carefully creep closer like the left outside kitten.
I hope I can sit for just a bit
Under the crepe myrtles in the corner where the little table now lives, in the center my mama’s broken pot and the waxy succulents.
I am comfortable here.
Here comes the storm and along with it I see in my hurry, the first fragile flower of Fall.
Pink camellia, gently strong and one to be depended on.
Here comes the storm.
Notice what brings comfort. Thunder, a pink flower, a new sitting spot in your evening yard. Stay there.