Last night flung itself into a rage. It cried. It wailed. It threw trees around. It surrounded the yurt and peered in the skylight. It broke the chimney and left drifts of snowy ash against the lattice.
“Are we still in Kansas, Toto?”
“Are we still in Oregon, Pixie?”
“Where is the flashlight? Where is the match and the candle?”
The road was bristled with needles and broken branches. None of the usual road kill. Skunks, deer, cats and coyotes were in deep hiding. Perhaps huddled and cuddled together, the douglas squirrels and the martins; the moths and the snakes; the elk and the wolves, waiting for the day to calm the night down. Soothe it with light and song. But the night lifted itself and blackened the sun. And day could do nothing but wait as well. Waiting for the rain to become deep hiccups and the wind, shuddering gasps.
Great lakes pool in the middle of roads. Rain splashes in all directions. Noon is as dark as midnight.