A downed powerline snakes deadly as a rattler. One touch and you are gone. Monsoons remind us of how small we are, how weak. They go anywhere they want. I write during a monsoon as long as I dare.
Lightning laughs at a surge protector.
One strike miles from this old roll-top desk can alchemize my words work into nothing as quickly as Hopi dancers fill the plaza and are gone. You might as well stop fighting it. I go, as I have for two years, to the wetland valley now devastated by the Forest Highlands luxury golf course and home sites. The stream is gone, the hillsides dozed beyond recognition. No storm could do this kind of work.