More Placid

More Placid

(“The smoke from the incense went up from the angel’s hand to God with the prayers of God’s people.” Revelation 8:4)

The air was stirred from placid to startling darts, turning direction
upon the compass; fully cold from the northern slopes, to the dry east
and dust, pivoting around to come up the south, a full-torque push from
industry’s center with smoke, to the final quarter, spitting sand and sea water
from the west. Assuming to know its pattern, the wind would reverse, traversing
the paths it had just forged.

It had been silent to begin the day. The river glass, the breeze as frail as
the elder’s dying gasp. Though midwinter, the sun pretended itself fully ablaze,
and many left their coats for single sweatshirts; to begin the day.

The coffee walked up and down the short main street, the bitter brew
sweetened my mild and foam, left it’s fragrance like a specter; with happy
conversation about children home from college and a year, now over,
breath is held for what the new will bring.

But late afternoon, like the loose foam of skim milk, fingerling clouds pointed
toward the dying sun, and, having begun, thought to take it in their grasp, to
tackle the fiery orb before it settle past the ground. Downstream forty miles
you would have seen the reinforcements, the low, dark gray the meets the
blue-white ocean’s horizon.

The storm would break in before the coffeeshops closed. It swirled around
old stand apple orchards, ripping winter’s branches and tossing them toward
the lean-to barn a hundred yards away. Twisting or straight, the winds invoked
the short circuit electricity from cloud to ground, the goliath spark with the
timpani shudder shortly after.

There was more fear than actual damage, though the damage done was
damage done well. A sniper storm which took out its mark and left others alone.

Holed up with candles after the transformer went down, people played Monopoly,
huddled in assurance, and found few ways to quit the shivering pets. Some prayed.

I have never seen the smoke, but I know the aroma. It is like the young lover’s
envelope,

sealed with a kiss and spotted with perfume. How Heaven must rejoice at
the petitions of love His people send; troubled or serene, on angels’ wings
the request arrive before spoken. And like the moment the letter is sent,
the anxious heart, once darted with apprehension, finds hope’s best dream
has slowed the nervous pulse and replaced it with an atmosphere
more placid.