Tornado Alley |
Last week, my littlest turned four and I sat with him, snotty-nosed, in my lap at the hair salon as his long curling clumps of soft blonde hair slid down my leg, falling in piles at my feet.
Thick, voluminous clouds dropping above the heavy green fields and forests. Everything here, soy, wheat, hay, sunflower fields, is wet. Flush and greedy, like the color of money. Rain pooling along the fence line, crop line, skyline. Evergreen trees growing up out of streams. Water in the treads along the side of the highway. Tides rushing over the gleaming Kentucky Dam. In the news, more shooters. More shootings. More dying and more dead. As though there’s a war on here. In the air, weathered old telephone poles, cell towers, gray clouds, sin. A lone heron lifting up from the water drenched ditch. The speed of summer is meant to be slow, but thanks to air conditioning, and irrigation, convenience shops, we speed, soggy, swamping, soaking it up.
A flatbed of cars, crushed for recycling, expectant, like having a handful of cards yet to be played, like right before the tractor trailer upturns in the ditch outside Paducah.