Tempest

 May 8, 2025

Throb of cicadas, always seeming to be distant from oneself. 

Election of Pope Leo XIV, the first American, delight to the believer and infuriation to the unrighteous. I was watching TV when he stepped out onto the balcony. The joy of the people in St. Peter’s Square communicated to me. I felt a good thing coming after so many bad. Glad it was an American (and not the douch-y Arch-bishop of New York), that the evil done in the world by Donald Trump might be in some measure balanced. 

Apocalyptic hailstorm. Haven’t checked the garden for damage, but the hail came in two waves, with stones the size of blueberries. We were promised golf balls, but I was not disappointed. Sound of transformers exploding on poles throughout North Asheville. Dead traffic lights causing mayhem on my way to rehearsal. 

After rehearsal I sat on my porch with a strong drink. It still rained intermittently, drops striking me from one side, then the other. Pink lightning branched and waved in the distance, and the garden was revealed by flashes in pinkish detail. The rolling of thunder never ceased. I was at war with God. The tempest was perfect illumination.