It storms and storms. Big, boiling clouds rise like heavy saucepans, bigger than saucepans should look, bigger than clouds should look. Rain comes in shocks. We’re in our second week of it.
Storms come at 7 A.M. soon as 7 P.M. They come at 65 degrees soon as 85. And there’s no reading the sky beyond three minutes. A storm clatters the sky’s pots soon as you turn your back. It could be all blue where you’re looking.
You cut grass when you can, and more than once a week.
Tornadoes tore down a beautiful line of trees that had graced my uncle’s place along the river downstate. Now it’s the river and the bare house.
Each week this month I’ve heard tales of tornado sightings in my county.
Warren sends the gods a sign: we are protected by the Fantastic Four.