by cheri sabraw
The wind howls this morning in gusts of exuberance. Even the 150-year-old oak trees anchor their roots to secure their moorings. Our handsome black walnut trees sway like Polynesian dancers at the lower end of our meadow. The capricious dead sycamore leaves circle the driveway like swarms of angry bees, out of control by the whims of the wind.
Last night, the skunks fled their dens. Rain is coming.
Like a child, I step out into this frenzied atmosphere taken in by the energy of the storm.
From Mission Peak, a lone hiker yells down the canyon, “Fraud!”
My robe, once tight around my waist, loosens out on the driveway as I hurriedly stack patio furniture before the wind can airlift it recklessly into the order of the orchard.
The atmosphere is electric and mysterious like the setting from The Hound of the Baskervilles wherein distant barking and baying portend an unsolved murder.
From Mission Peak, the sore loser yells, ” A Free Press!”
I call up to the shoulder of the mountain, struggling with my independent robe, ” The press happened last month. Our yield was 256 bottles of olive oil!”
From Mission Peak, “Conspiracy, Putin, the election!!” shrieks he.
Oh, you meant Press as in the Washington Press Corps, I yell.
The clouds come closer, darken, and form into that glib superior smile we saw often during the recent presidential election.
I call out to the lone hiker, are you The Spy Who Loved Me? Are you From Russia With Love?
Who are you?
He goes silent.
My robe flies up into the trees, snarled in the redwood branches. Now, I am able to be myself, unconstrained and free from the sash that binds my waist.
You idiots! I bellow. The hounds bay.
John Podesta returns to his keyboard.
The desperate become more so.