Soapbox

Derecho

      I wonder if they know what's coming?
The birds still act the same, but riding the wind as they do, with existence depending on the ability to judge thermal lift and downdraft, I just think they must know.  But what can they do? What will come will come and they have no hatches to batten down.
    The robin on the fence eyes me, unworried.

    The day is hot with just enough breeze to ruffle my hair, sun shines placidly in a sky that has drifted from blue to pewter. If I could drag my nail across the metallic sky I think it would screech in protest. Makes me wonder what it's like, looking up at the underside of a hammer's head, poised to drop.
    It's going to be a rough night. And as the hours spool off the day my anxiety grows, but the dog still sniffs at that same spot as we round the corner. Surely he can smell the storm approaching but he doesn't whine or pace just lifts his head and enjoys the cool of the suddenly freshening breeze as the leaves turn, hiding their faces.
     The smiling weatherman, gesturing happily in front of his charts assures me that the word for today is 'severe'. 200 miles away still, but coming on fast: extreme winds, large hail, tornadoes.
      "Be prepared to take cover" he says, but with scenes of Oklahoma and Joplin like dioramas of desolation in my heart, I wonder how to shelter my garden, my car, my house. My tomorrow.

     With my blind human senses I would sniff the air and only think "huh… Bit of a storm this evening" But the trees must know. They wait, solid and accepting, still whispering their dreams of rock and water. I lay my hand on the bark of one trunk and wonder if this tree will still be standing tomorrow? Surely, like the birds, it tastes danger in the breeze better than any doppler weather radar, must know that their llifetime partner is about to turn their dance into an abusive relationship. But it waits quietly for what comes. It has no choice, Nowhere to hide.
    What is there for any of us to do with this curse of knowledge? the Derecho is coming: now what? There is no way to turn aside the locomotive, and we are tied to the railroad tracks by our jobs and our homes and our lives.
     And so we hunt for bugs, sniff the stone walls, do the laundry and cut the grass, keeping busy in the big red dot on a bullseye.
     I pause for a minute, standing in the yard wishing that worry had a purpose, could harden me like a protective carapace, like Iron man donning his suit, keeping me safe. I wish worry could keep us all safe, instead of only wasting this summer day.

    I bring in the lawn furniture and go to buy more batteries.