Waxing Crescent Moon
For a short while yesterday, day turned to night. Somewhere between Crook CO (pop 110) and Iliff CO (pop 256), the sky became a giant black and blue bruise. There was no edge to it. It was everywhere, smothering all the visible Earth.
Jagged bolts of lightning shuddered and disappeared. Thunder crushed everything like a bully in jackboots. The South Platte River, with cottonwood trees and a semblance of shelter, was about two miles to my left, roughly parallel to my highway. Interstate 76 was on the opposite side of the river.
Me and Bobalooie were the tallest things in a two mile radius. There was wind. And rain was imminent. Crash. Pow. Crackle. That big dark bruise so close.
Kind of a lonely high plains moment.
I didn’t die. I did feel like curling up in the fetal position with my fingers in my ears. I wanted to rock back and forth and hum with my eyes closed until it was over.
The Sheridans from South Dakota saved me from that embarassment, thank God. They appeared out of the gloom like holy shining seraphim. I was scooped up into their Toyota Tacoma double cab and driven the rest of the way to Sterling CO. I ♡ the Sheridans, ain’t no lie.
As I was getting out of the truck, I caught a little glimpse of my eyes in the side view mirror. I swear I saw tiny lightning bolts embedded in the center of my dilated pupils. Let’s hope they are not permanent.
I’m taking the weekend off to recover from that stressful Mother Nature mini-trauma. Compared to all the crazy nonsense that has occurred in urban America the past couple of days, my daymare was nothing. But a little R & R is definitely in order.
We’re all in this together, folks. As the song says, love the one you’re with.
Peace, Love, and Passing T-storms,