Webster's dictionary describes hail as "frozen raindrops falling during a thunderstorm". For a violent ten minutes today it looked like thousands of moth balls were dropping from the thunder-crashing sky. The horses were wild within their fenced area . Running, doubling back, circling, running forward again as if their motion would make it all stop. And maybe it worked. Mists that huddled around the mountains began to lift the moment the last hailstone fell, revealing new snow drifting down from the peaks like thick sprinkled powdered sugar.
I can't help thinking about blossoms when this happens, but then remind myself that this landscape has been here long before me, will be here long after and worrying about it won't change anything. The mountains will reign. Blossoms and flowers will either make it or not. Most of what grows around here is tenacious and hardy. Natural selection winnows out the weaklings.
Manuel at 95
walks ancient pastures
in green Wellies
carries a shovel and notices again
that nearly ineffable change
in the slant of light
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