Across the road towards the Southside of town, the horizon is the color of a brand new bruise.

Undeniably, a storm is coming and like the signs warning of a coming backhand across your cheek or a vicious grab, you know this color, you are familiar with the warning.

In my little corner I sit and listen to the distant noise of thunder.

Sounding like men strong arming an old chest across the attic floor.

I am quiet. I’m well. I am safe.

Waiting for the rain has become a favorite thing. The air brushing my shoulder, a kiss-like surprise.

A drop, is it here?

The storm?

I will it to come slowly, to carefully creep closer like the left outside kitten.

I hope I can sit for just a bit

Under the crepe myrtles in the corner where the little table now lives, in the center my mama’s broken pot and the waxy succulents.

Thriving.

I am comfortable here.

Here comes the storm and along with it I see in my hurry, the first fragile flower of Fall.

Pink camellia, gently strong and one to be depended on.

Comfort.

Comfortable here.

Here comes the storm.

Notice what brings comfort. Thunder, a pink flower, a new sitting spot in your evening yard. Stay there.

Return often.