Them be thunderheads up yonder west.

Sat out on the porch. Watched one mother of a thunderstorm roll in outta west, over the Rockies. Sure picked up pace when it hit the foothills, rushin’ in, wind howlin’, forked lightin’, sheets a ice-cold rain poundin’ the streets empty and silver, knockin’ leaves down to grass. 

Sat out on the porch. Rain came down, drank Corona, ate beans and tortillas, listenin’ to the Ghost of Tom Joad, from when Springsteen was a young fella.

That rain sure did clean things up.

A-yup, sure did. ; )

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