Too early, I woke from a night of anxious dreams in which I checked, compulsively, the weather online and found that the whole of the country, from California to the strange state that is Delaware, was choked with storms. And not just any storms, but full-bellied, wind-filled storms with masts of lightning, storms that plied the country with speed and authority. I woke certain I was going to have to fly anyway, that it was only a matter of time before takeoff.
I stayed put. I put on the kettle and hauled up the blinds. I watched the old ceiling fan spin, the blades of dust taking flight. I sneezed, then put on as little clothing as possible and went for a walk. Outside it was not too hot but insufficiently cold. Down the road, that tree with the broad, stubby-fingered leaves released, in clouds, its fluff. It came down milky, light as snow, white-gold against the green. It lodged in my hair, battered my nose and and lips. There's storms and there's storms.