And today, we wait.
The wind gusts are rocking the moored sailboats side to side, a sway in tandem with dancing palm fronds. The water has shimmied up to just underneath docks that usually have greater breathing room, continuous ripples gliding north along the canal. And the drizzle imprints fast-paced crescent moons and circles on the pool's surface, distorting the calm that was there for a whisper a moment ago. Soon it will careen again, this water fall, accompanied by orchestral howling, the roar its sumptuous companion.
I look up and notice at last the uniform gray of the sky. No, it has slight variations of blended clouds sweeping northward unceremoniously, this barely monotone canvas setting the mood against lush green spectators, struggling to bow their crowns while rooted along the storm's path.
Queen Irma! Your impending arrival has your subjects quivering before you.
And still we wait.
(c) 2017 Iris B. Struller