Thirty miles away, or maybe forty, huge, gleaming, white as fear and near as night, a thunderhead rises into the sky in early evening on the First of July, six miles high, maybe higher. Even though I've been fascinated by these for nearly seven decades now, I've never seen one like this: distinctive circled fringe ringing about the billowing stack, shadowy skulls grinning back from hell's highest circle, soaring toward heaven itself in taunting flight. There is something sinister about this, mesmerizing and menacing even on its bright reflecting side. I know without seeing that from the east this beast is black as doubt, its fierce heart pulsing hail and wind, sending drenching rain down upon browning fields of grass almost past hope, churning and cutting new ditches on soft slopes of soybeans freshly planted in fertile soil, or else leaving rippling seams of husks and stems in sinuous remnant in the stubble of recently cut wheat. What is not neatly washed away or savagely broken or bent past hope's point of flexion and no longer choosing its own direction, will take in whatever water reaches its roots, find some brief rest in the passing coolness, and either give thanks for the forming blessing or else curse the thunder and mourn the plunder of what is lost. It is a fearsome thing for the meek to pray for rain in summer, not knowing what costs may come with the blessings we seek, what storm might deliver our daily bread. But yet we will still give thanks that we are clothed and fed. H. Arnett 7/3/2023
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