Photo courtesy Sandro D. Vogel
A yin black sky threatens. Expressive sculpted clouds–like the swirls and rugged lines reminiscent of the American painter Thomas Hart Benton’s dramatic creations—scoot across the sky.
Simultaneously– I remember bobbing at anchor in Southeast Alaska and similar dark clouds racing—and us stuck in sea for it was too rough beyond the bay to boat back home.
If these Oregon clouds break and explode with water—it will seem, for a few minutes, like a normal season—not this drought-parched sunstroke of a summer.
It’s always rained hard here in August.
Annual great gusts followed by pounding drops — scouring the landscape to reveal base-scent of rich earth, flowers of all kinds, shapes and colors, and Bruce’s ripening blackberries.
A few days later …
It rained softly last night for five to ten minutes while we sat under the porch and listened. No downpour like I imagined might come last Thursday but didn’t.
Sunday’s moisture-dusting brought forth the everywhere smell of pungent clay and over-ripe cantaloupe, and it wasn’t quite what I hoped for.