The radar shows pink and purple to the west — the stuff of severe thunderstorms and tornados. The rain hasn’t arrived, yet. There’s no thunder or lightning. The storms are approaching only slowly and are still far away.
Still, the wind is picking up, and the wind chimes hanging from the eves are ringing. And if you walk into the back corner of the yard, back far enough from the eve-hanging chimes, back by the compost pile, you can hear the harmony of the new wind chimes that we hung beside Guinness when we laid him in the ground. They don’t ring loudly, so we don’t usually hear them from the house, but their gentle music is a joy to hear.
I wonder what Guinness thinks of this. The wind. The ringing of those gentle chimes. He wasn’t much for windy days. And bells would always set him to barking. But somehow those chimes seem sufficiently soothing that perhaps tonite the storms won’t bother him as they pass over his grave.
Perhaps. Or then maybe perhaps not. He really didn’t like the thunder, and here it comes now.