It was a dark and stormy…
It’s nearing nine in the morning and we’re on high alert. About an hour ago, the sky drained its dusky blue and turned to soupy steel – blurred to pelting cold sheets of rain. It’s raining ropes. I stepped in a poodle.
Every few minutes a flash lights the garden to midday, just long enough to see that the river is quick turmoil and now halfway up the lawn.
Inside, the lights flicker, the TV jumps on then dies, and we pause for guttural rumbles, thunderous claps that rattle the windows and let you know why people once concluded the wrath of gods.
All school has been cancelled, basements secured and all vehicles moved to higher ground.
The roof is a clatter of hail and the village a dim silhouette. The house smells of wet dog.
There’s a pit in my stomach like the one I get in airports, in line for a plane I don’t want to take.
We’re waiting for the floods. Again.
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