Mother Nature

On the twilight edge between sleep and waking, I dreamed it was raining rocks.

An hour earlier I had gotten up to let the dogs out and there was no hint of the sudden hailstorm that seemed to explode out of the sky. It passed so quickly that when I woke the second time I wouldn't have been sure it had been real except that the trees were bent over and small rivers of water were still rushing down the sides of the street. Nature had given a brief yelp, reasserted her power for a few stunning moments, and then crept back into seclusion.

I imagine her to be an old crone with warts and a badly bent back, misshapen fingers clutched around a gnarly old cane and wearing scuffed, muddy boots. Her hair would be wild and wind driven under a ragged and aged bonnet, she would have narrow evil eyes and her voice would be high pitched with a tendency to cackle. She would be very tall but on the thin side - a raspy old witch with a quick trigger temper and the power to back it up - a woman who disliked being forgotten, underestimated or taken for granted. Hidden below the ugliness, there would be great beauty, an indication of a softer and more gentle side, capable of light summer breezes and sunshine, of perfect days and nights with warm air and moonlight. Here, she would say, Take this magnificent day and live it to the fullest. You never know when I may snatch it back or what tomorrow will bring.

A single tiny sparrow sits on the fence in the leftover rain. I watch him hop from post to post, flare his small nut colored wings and chirp out a good morning. There is still thunder echoing from the gray skies and I imagine that there is more rain to come, that it will be a cold and stormy March day, a day when I long for a white sand beach on some deserted coast, an unopened novel and a pitcher of sweet lemonade.

In my mind, I can hear Mother Nature laughing - but not loud enough to drown out the sparrows.