The plains lay flat and open under the reckless weather. Storms can be seen for miles, hours before they arrive. At night, in the distance, the sky dances with the on off flicker of lightning, you can't even hear the thunder. Sometimes the wind blows relentlessly and violently, ripping off tree limbs, bashing down fences, even toppling construction; nothing in it's path to slow it, no obstacle to it's vengeance as it scours this flat open space. In a day, all seasons may occur; snow, sleet, rain, blazing sun. Hail the size of eggs pummels, bruises and breaks us, always right after I've planted a garden. Don't become attached to anything, everything uncovered, unprotected and at the mercy of the weather.
Mostly the sky puts on a show, compensating for the baked earth and it's featureless flatness. That flatness broken only by the line of mountains rising in the west, an abrupt end to the level land. Everyday the sky rolls out her best; towers of clouds, fanned with wisps, framed by haze, saturated with an undercoating of purple and blue. Evenings are electric in oranges, yellows, purples, pinks, reds, or pastels of lilac, teal and coral; every color is painted on the sky. The sky. The bluest possible sky.
I love cities and their skylines, full of spires and sparkles and lines and windows into other lives. But this sky suits my soul, here in the wide open, given room to breathe.
K, so can you write a book already?
ReplyDeletehaha. that's what russ said. :) thanks!
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