The Calm Before the Storm

The cicadas are maintaining a low-volume buzz, there are no rising and falling waves in their song, I cannot pick one out from the others. The sky is simply gray, there are not clearly clouds and there is no sun, no blue, no turbulence. Yellow leaves have sprinkled onto the lawn overnight, the earliest sacrifices of autumn, but the trees this morning are motionless and stately. Their fullness is not textured with shadows and contrasting brightness, they are monotonous dull kelly green this morning.

The neighbors' doors are closed, I hear no children, the Peruvians chose today not to play futbol on the playground across the street, people are not driving on the streets unnecessarily.

Last night the grocery store was not crowded but there was no water in the water section, no milk in the milk section. The people who shopped last night were unhurried and friendly, the panickers had preceded them, hoarding more than they will possibly need.

We have satellites that look down and send us photographs of the approaching chaos of the hurricane that is as big as Texas. In earlier days, there was no way to see it. One morning you got up and the world was tucked in, still, a little too quiet, and you said to your neighbor: "I think this is the day all hell is going to break loose."