Today at 6:17 it began to rain, and it was a welcome change from the Florida sun.  The air relaxed, the land cooled (I could almost see steam rising from the pavement), and my yellowing basil was rejuvenated.  Lightning burst, and crack by thunderous crack the clouds realigned themselves.  The cat had run under the bed before I heard the first raindrop, scared, no doubt, of the wrath of her immortal Rain God enemies.

Storm season arrived three days ago with just enough rain to make one sit up and take notice. They say it’s going to be a rough year – three to five real hurricanes minimum, and the first shall be called Arlene.  I had a neighbor named Arlene, but she wasn’t the stormy one. No, that was her, her… what do you call it these days? Partner? Companion? Lover? Live-in bitch (seems that’s all she ever did)? At any rate, I haven’t stocked up on water or bought a gas stove yet, but Arlene’s on the way and better safe than sorry.

A small meow came from under the bed, making me wonder once more how tigers evolved into creatures like my round, wide-eyed tabby.  Surely one of such a majestic bloodline must be brave, or at least crafty.

For that matter, why am I not brave or crafty? Some deep inner sailor (pirate, perhaps) laughs at thunder and seeks adventure, but where was I? Lying in bed, bemoaning a sore leg and a broken heart.

Au diable les orages! I leaped from the bed, snatching d’Artagnan’s rapier and cloak. I threw the doors wide and charged into the storm.

The cat poked her nose out from under the bed. She sniffed the air, stretched, and stole the warm spot. Perhaps she is crafty, after all.

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