Summer heat and whatever else brought us an intense popup storm last night. Winds contorted the highest branches of our trees, seemingly pulling them parallel to the ground until they would shift, whipping the massive limbs back into their sky-reaching form. A constant strobe of lightning back lit this dance. Cracks and booms told of our closeness to bolts meeting earth. I went in to sleeping Silas, in case he woke frightened or if I needed to save him from a falling tree.
But it soon quieted and morning came.
The windchime is my mother’s way to converse with me when I’m in the herb garden. I like to think so anyway. And that is her injured tree.