Primordial Prairie Village

I took a two-and-a-half hour vacation Tuesday evening.

It began when I stepped into my backyard to polish off the newspaper. As I’d worked up a healthy sweat in the kitchen, I didn’t mind the bright, muggy conditions.

But I didn’t get up after reading about tragedy in Indonesia, the woes of the Royals and the antics of Bucky Katt in Get Fuzzy. I just sat.

I saw that the sky was slowing graying. I hadn’t checked in with the apocalyptic soothsaying of Katie Horner, my favorite weatherperson. I didn’t know if a storm was expected. So I sat and watched. And with no electronic devices or further reading material to distract me, I sat some more. I didn’t pull weeds or pick up debris. It was just me, the rabbits, the birds and the mosquitos.

Occasional rolling thunder interrupted the hum of children playing, street traffic, and the chatter of birds and dogs. A light mist didn’t keep me from discovering that the woodpecker feeder I’d written off as ineffective was actually attracting four or five skittish downys. I realized that I could eat well for a week if I harvested the monstrous hares in my yard.

Aside from stirring a simmering pot in the kitchen once or twice and taking the attached picture, nothing distracted me from my zen-like trance. The sun reemerged a couple times but was ultimately replaced by quick streaks of lightning. When steady rain finally arrived it felt like a baptism.

I didn’t move until I was drenched, alone in the darkness.