It’s like something I’ve seen before, but mostly in my nightmares.  And as I stand in it, warm, dry, dress flapping around my legs, hair flying off my forehead, I feel as though I’m flying.  I am standing in high heeled feet and bare arms, staring at a blackening, darkening sky that positively boils.  It boils and churns and churls with vehemence and maleficence.  Were I in Kansas, I’d be in the cellar, clutching a radio and making my peace with the universe.  I’d be awaiting the pelting hail, the driving rain and the sound of a freight train.  I’d wait for that telltale pause, that moment of stillness where the monster draws in breath before the sinister twirling and the reaching of long black fingers toward the warm, waiting ground.

But I’m not in Kansas.  I’m not in The Alley.  I’m in central upstate New York and there’s something about this valley, the Mohawk Valley, that funnels the storm clouds and mixes temperature to form crisp, ozone splitting, hair raising, ear ringing lightning and the most malicious looking clouds I’ve seen since the plains.  And only because I know the incidence of twisters is very, very low here, do I stand with still feet and wide eyes.  My head swivels so as not to be surprised from behind.  It’s my very own Mohawk Picture Show.  And it’s mesmerizing.

Robin Behl, La Cuentista

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