Wrath

The wind bent the trees, and I thought they would break. Thunder sounded like a freight train being snapped in half, lightening lit up the sky like it was day, and rain came down like a monsoon. This is the prairies. I’m accustomed to thunderstorms, in fact I enjoy them and believe they are marvelous spectacle of nature. But I became terrified when the thunder whipped the earth, and the earth screamed.

Sheets of metal rasped by hands, that’s what the thunder sounded like. Out my window, I saw the streaks of lightening touch the street. A car alarm went off. Sirens a couple blocks away. And rain turned into hail. It was like rocks were being dropped on top of the house. It was hail the size of tomatoes.

The wind knocked the patio furniture around. The ashtray shattered when it collided with the swing set. The wooden beams holding the gazebo twisted, the nails in the boards screeched, coming lose. The wind turned so harsh — coinciding with the threatening booms — the front yard pine tree snapped in half, and as it fell it scraped the front windows like long fingernails on a chalk board.

Ten minutes later, the rain slowed, as did the wind and thunder. It was as if nature had swooped in, unleashing her fury upon us for burning our children. It had to be done, though. Our children were not clean enough for this world.

When the thunder had ceased, I went outside. The black garbage bin, toppled over, had spilled last night’s garbage across the driveway. Magpies picked at tin cans, crows cawed from the roof tops. My BMW had been dented by the hail, and it’s paint scratched by the neighbors pine tree falling.