If the storm had a body, this was one jab from one fingertip, no more; elsewhere the hurricanes tore, here the road was lost under mulch, here light branches fell. We felt the roar, the joyous power, we were safe in our home. In the morning the sun rose, an orange fire caught in grey cloud, sparks that lit tree tops - copper and iron. Images of a weather god, hammer swinging, forging - a ploughshare, I think. To turn over earth and plant a green crop, to keep our soil safe through winter.Day and night draw even. Nights will start to stretch. We must think of winter stores; hunkering down, shoring up.
I feel like we will have enough, we will get the work done. Often when contentment loomed I had feared it. It seemed a dulling of my senses, of this edge to edge living. This time I am plumping cushions, setting the wood burner. And yes the house is full of boxes and bottles and things to be done, we have not reached the still point of cosy - but I am ready to be comfortable. Nothing stops storms, whatever zone you inhabit. In the temperate zones the seasons will morph, the days and nights will shift their hours. I too am changing, and yet not: I am sky, all this is but weather.