One late-summer's evening. The day had been oppressively hot and the thunderstorm was threatening to arrive, from one minute to the next, at the edge of the mountain. Already, the first lightning bolts ripped the dark veil of the sky. The crickets, everywhere, leading the deafening and relentless percussion. A dog calls out to another, releasing a chorus of barking that pierces the obscurity, responding to an invisible menace. The air is heavy, even as a gust of bad omens lifts the fronds of leaves. Lower down the valley, it must have really rained already...
The insects go quiet and the wind becomes more violent. The storm is cresting the hill, lightening flashes bleaching the false night. Not one solitary thunder-clap but a continuous roll, worrisome, like a an army advancing in the distance. The wind gusts accentuate, the air is noticeably cooling. Now, suddenly, one, then two impacts on the dry ground. Then a hundred, a thousand; from everywhere hail explodes, perforating thick foliage, striking randomly, powerful and glacial.
The insects go quiet and the wind becomes more violent. The storm is cresting the hill, lightening flashes bleaching the false night. Not one solitary thunder-clap but a continuous roll, worrisome, like a an army advancing in the distance. The wind gusts accentuate, the air is noticeably cooling. Now, suddenly, one, then two impacts on the dry ground. Then a hundred, a thousand; from everywhere hail explodes, perforating thick foliage, striking randomly, powerful and glacial.
Better run for cover and wait it out. The surrounding vegetation humps it's back. Surely the ditches will stay white until morning.
The plums were just ripening, too; if we'd known we would have picked them sooner...
photo by Jean-Francois Salles
written by Michel Molling
