9pm.

On the highway headed westward toward North Olmsted.

The distance was enshrouded by foggy opaqueness. I barreled straight at it, knowing all too well what I would encounter.

The cloud and ground met ahead of me. Careening into a downpour. The beads of rain glancing off the windshield.

Of Monsters and Men shouting “hey!” through my speakers. The only sound apart from the heavy drumming of zillions of raindrops.

It ended as soon as it started. The sky was enveloped with the grays and browns and blues of enormous rain-clouds. But there, suspended right above the horizon, clouds only behind it, the sun hovered. Pinkish-red. Flaming. Insouciant. A stark contrast with the recent deluge, with the smoggy near-the-airport nimbus knocking nearby.

I glided across the bridge past the airport. The sun now blocked by trees, blank black and green and stretching up to cover the warmth of the light. I left the highway.

I met deer in the backyard. I walked toward them. They bounded away, the doe, the three fawns. One stopped and ate a few leaves from a tomato plant in my grandmother’s yard. As I came closer to the circular garden where the tomatoes sat, marigolds blossoming in the center, but not impeding those grazers and foragers of our vegetables, they all stopped.

One fawn inched toward me. I inched toward it. It paused. I turned back away from the garden. I stopped. I looked back the fawn. It flinched and bounded away, the two other fawns bounding after it. The doe peered back at me, almost with a warning. The whole tomato plant would be gone the next day, if I did what I did tonight.

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