All afternoon and into the evening, every day for days now, it's rumbled and thundered all around us, off in the distance, sky going bruise dark and we get a spit here, a sprinkle there, and then nothing. Nothing at all.
It's almost a yearning that comes upon me when this happens. A yearning for the release and relief of that good, pure downpour. Which does not come but it will, maybe even tonight, who knows? The sky is complaining like hell off to the west, it surely is.
Owen and I went over to see the goats and yes, we saw them but we also saw three new baby chicks, following their banty mother around, peep-peeping behind her and we were so delighted we had to call Owen's mama to report. They are black and yellow, they are so tiny, like down-covered golf balls on speedy stick legs and I think of the hawk who comes in every night to spend the dark-coming hour with me. I do not have a great deal of hope for those peeps but who knows?
My husband will be home any moment and he will fill the house with his presence the way he does. I have pinto beans simmering and will make a cornbread and a tomato salad. I bought mozzarella today. It feels as if he's been gone for far longer than the short time he has been. He'll fill up the house and he'll fill up the laundry basket and he'll fill up my arms. It is his way, our way. He goes away, he comes home. I am waiting.
A train goes by, it splits the air with sound, you have no idea how much freight still gets hauled this way. I wonder if the sound scares the little chicks. "Take cover!" they might call, exactly as Owen does, and then dive under their mother.
A loud world and a scary one sometimes but a sweet one too.
I am waiting on my husband. He is coming home.