 Yesterday morning Jonathan and I heard a loud crunching snap outside our bedroom window. One of the many trees that succumbed to the sudden weight of a wet spring snowstorm smashed through three sections of the paddock fence, just a dozen yards from the house. Later, we walked the dogs around the rest of the property to survey the damage. Trees were bent to the ground unbroken, or snapped off near the top, or uprooted entirely, their great trunks and reaching branches crashed to Earth. Many took out other trees as they fell. You couldn’t have guessed which trees would go by looking at them. Some survived the disaster, some did not.
I couldn’t help contemplating this storm’s timely message. You cannot know what trials the world has in store. Shit happens. Many are damaged, but they recover, adapt, make do. Not everyone survives. Central Maine appears to be starting its COVID-19 escalation. Let’s hope that as many of us as possible can weather this storm. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 230: 166 words, TOTAL = 37,561; 22,439 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
April 2022
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