I drove out to my father’s farm under a nor’west arch. The roll cloud loomed over the fields, dividing the day into brightness and shadow. The winds from the north were warm and I opened all the windows of the car to let it rush through. Tom Waits wailed Blind Love on the stereo and I rolled my free hand back and forth through the gusty slipstream.
At dad’s I drank tea and ate cheese and bread with him on his new deck. The weather began to turn as we sat there talking. The spring weather is volatile, he told me, like a teenager in love. My old cat, Mr Jones, came and sat with us and I rubbed behind his ears to remind him who I was.
In the late afternoon the roll cloud began to fall, the wispy strands catching a trace of the sun setting behind us, and the wind became cold, blustering up from the south. We stayed out on the deck and other animals joined us there, Sophie the lab, Cotton the other cat, and Plucky the rooster. Out on the deck we shared the remains of the bread with them and watched the lambs on the hill run to catch the drama of the dying light in the gathering storm.