Words like, "microburst" or "tornado" -- and Edison's shine is blown away. At least for a while. Now it's all battery power and candle glow.
And the milky green of that silken-sharp fairy, in her soft curved glass.
Anise...and quiet, darker than ever. No house lights or street lamps. Just rain drizzling down -- and the pale non-blue glow of the nearly full moon.
The air is heavy and moist. Things are very still, feeling later than it is. Mag-lite and Indiglo. It's hard to write by candlelight (but don't the words seem more charged in that glow, the paper revealing deeper mysteries?)
Telephones and computers are down.
But my cellphone still works. I talked with Kelli, Grams, and Bob. The power of devices.
I am sprawled here, wearing only my underwear and watch. (Like I said, it's sticky-hot.)
Stretching out, laying down. Tree limbs cracked and fell earlier. And rain. The wind surged like a vast seething engine, spinning debris in frantic whirls and blurs. And after that: the sad colors of flower petals scattered over the mud.
Looking into the clouded depths of a glass lit from below by a pencil-thin flashlight. Absinthe with a halo.
Outside, another shower shifts through...and then it's quiet again. And the lights are still out.
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