Clawing Back

Thanks, Bob. Your comments make it a bit easier to pick up my pencil when I'd rather just fall into bed.

August 6--"I was listening to something I heard before"--The sound of the wind sighing through the pines and the creak of their trunks kept Jan awake. She lay in the narrow bed of the rustic cabin, eyes wide in the pitch black as if bearing witness to the storm would keep her safe. As the wind rose to a keening pitch her knees drew toward her chest and her shoulders hunched toward her ears until she was curled up like a frightened turtle in her cotton and wool shell. The waves boomed at the base of the bluff barely fifty feet from the cabin door sounding like giant's footsteps climbing up. The wind died and the silence was more frightening than the gale. It was as if the planet was holding its breath, gathering itself for another assault. Jan's muscles relaxed enough to send her feet sliding back into the barely warm spot at the foot of the bed where they'd been when the storm began and she drifted to sleep as the first raindrops patted the leaves and splashed onto the flagstone porch.

See you tonight.
--Barbara