The wind comes in the front door of the house and out the back, as if I had hastily opened a tent for the night; a nomad never wants the air to be stale. I am barefoot, winter and summer: I like my feet to feel the ground.
Storms came today, so we drove along the river. Dark clouds and rain; mud naturally. The truck hit a flooded patch of road, and a chocolate wave cleared the truck roof and cascaded down the other side. Flashes of light popped within the clouds, but no strikes hit between ground and clouds, between dry brush and ignition. The river was slick dark and cold and we rolled through the rain, the rocky buttes around town flattened to silhouettes under sheets of falling water. A bad dose of hail hit town while we were gone. Plants battered, shredded, the pieces blown like confetti. Seeds I had planted early survived the late cold and snow, but were chopped to pieces, as if for inclusion in some crazy Wyoming salad.
The storm front has moved on, the sun golden; what remains of the garden’s brave shoots must survive a cold night; wind tears at the damaged leaves. The storm has erased my poor garden, erased weeks of progress, but this is Wyoming, and such is expected. The winters are so long and we wait, wait for the garden.