The wind came hard Saturday, a force from south by southwest, doing its best to rearrange whatever things were not rooted, nailed or weighted. Being none of the above, the green garden cart skidded across the concrete apron of the garage. I took it back to its place beneath the birch tree, laid it on its side with the open part away from the wind. A stronger sending a while later sent it sliding into the gravel of the driveway. With such as that going on all day, we went to bed expecting to wake Sunday and find broken branches and shingles scattering across the yard.
Sometime during the night, rain and thunder woke me, but only for a moment or two. I suppose that a hard day’s work and a relatively clear conscience can help a body through the rest it needs. The inch-and-a-half of rain helped the dirt with its needs.
I stepped lightly through the soggy places near the horse’s feed tubs, then poured out the water that had collected. I called to the horses as I shook out the mix of sweet feed and softened beet pellets into the black bins. At first, Cisco and Jitterbug simply stared at me across the field through the slow rain, then came trotting.
As they eagered into their breakfast, I ducked back out beneath the fence. Looking around, I saw no signs of branches broken, or roofing torn away. I walked back into a dry house, grateful for strong walls and good framing. We need something stronger than the storms, some place of refuge, some good place unchanged by the tempest.
Though some may mock the masses and scoff at crutches, I never met a skeptic who thought an umbrella good enough for facing a tornado.