Storm
Ankit asleep.
Feels like we’ll have a hurricane today. Sudden overcast booming skies; the wind crashing surf. Papa Thakur chuckles as he gazes at the ominous clumps of cumulous. The lights and TV blink weakly; the unlatched door hinges as if possessed by spirits. The kids warm their hands by the wood stove, then press them to their cold, rosy cheeks. The apple trees wiggle in place like firm jello.
Tension before the orgasm of rainfall.