The Dark Grey Cloud

I can see most storms coming my way.

I look out my window, to the west, across the farm field, and see the grey cloud. Gathering darkness as it creeps closer to the hill on the other side of that field. It’s over there. Not here.

I see one now. Impending.

The cloud changes when it gets to the hill. It morphs from a dark, sharp wall into a lighter, amorphous blob. Hard to see where it begins. As it envelopes the hill, the sheets of rain begin to obscure the dark green with a haze like a sheer curtain flowing in a breeze.

The trees and bushes in my yard start to rustle, at first, and then wave violently as if they know what’s coming and they’re doing their best to get away. Yet, they are handcuffed to the trunks that anchor them to the ground.

And that billowing, sheer curtain walks across the field. Slow but deliberate. It knows we can’t go anywhere.

When the curtain reaches my yard, it’s almost tentative. A few drops at first. You can count them on the front walk. Individuals sent out either to test the ground or to announce what’s coming. Maybe both.

But then, quickly, a deluge. No longer individuals. Too many. Too fast. Too wet.

You can see those dark grey clouds coming, but you can’t always get away.

So what will you do?