In our world, there are few surprises. Storms once stole the imagination, sweeping down and scattering life below. In our time, we believe our technologies will arm us, warn us, prepare us with lists of things to do. So we hear about it countless times until it almost seems unreal. In a world addicted to warnings, there is a license to warn. In a world shrouded in fear, we are urged to be frightened. There are people who rush to prepare, and there are people who say, it is what it is, it will be what it will be. We are nothing but witnesses to our own lives. There is a beauty to it all, as well as fear and confusion. We are small, really, and so we give storms monster names and rush out to buy water and milk and generators, our own ancient rituals in new and different forms. The edge of the storm arrived at our farm this evening, the wind picking up, the clouds gathering and darkening. I saw the animals see it, sense it, feel it, and cluster, move towards the Pole Barn.
I stood in the road and shook my head. What a beautiful and awful thing a storm can be. It is so much more beautiful than a weather map, and I was relieved to see that this is so.