A Cyclone of Crows

Posted on March 31, 2006 in Memory Weather

Yesterday:

A spiral of crows warned that rain would fall within twenty four hours. The avian tornado cawed the doom of weekend plans, which for this man and his friends was a hike to a green canyon’s white waterfall. Friends debated the conditions under which they would go anyways. A drizzle, said the woman whose name was Mindy, would harden the ground for them.

The man went to check the sky. Long combs preceded the wigs of condensed precipitation that would come tomorrow.

The man visited his cardiologist for a check-up. He went out to dinner with his wife. After he picked up his prescription for Lamictal, he came home. He took out a hand shovel and started to empty the half barrel that had fallen apart after the death of a dwarf date palm. The dirt was moist towards the outer edge and dry under the eaves. He dumped a few pounds in each of two garbage bags and then went inside to take early shelter from the storm which was not due until tomorrow afternoon.

Then he read what he had written in the morning, remembered the wrath of a selfish adult in a whirlwind of narcissism who’d castigated him for not noticing a toy train on a bookshelf.