milk and honey

June 6, 2026 - The Eighty-Second Anniversary of D-Day

I was in the backyard this evening just before 7 o’clock when a squall line blew through. In less than five minutes, the temperature dropped probably 10 degrees, the air — which had been heavy and muggy, a real swampy, soupy gravy — suddenly lightened and dried. The wind kicked up and the trees all whooshed and swayed in their tops. Seven or eight birds — just crows, I think — soared, wings spread to the max on the waves of air. The sky darkened. Not to the green light of tornado weather, but deep gray-blue. And something inside me absolutely vibrated with excitement and a kind of joy.

In five minutes the wind died. And… nothing happened. No rain. No thunder. No lightening. No wind.

But for those few minutes when it felt like a little charge, a little danger, a little excitement, like a little (or a lot of) weather was on the march, it was a happy, thrilling joy. Joy is perhaps too strong a word, but I cannot come up with anything more accurate. I prayed a thank-you prayer, and then came inside.

I am certain that were it not for Annie Dillard and Wendell Berry — their books and their poetry — I wouldn’t have noticed; I would have come inside too soon and missed that brief interlude of aliveness. Thank you, God, for their teaching.