It's been a slate gray day with an overlay of dark, ominous clouds weeping occasional torrents of rain across the land. Whenever it pours this hard on the prairie, the scent is so fresh and clean. The dry dust is hit hard by droplets of high velocity, pinging, making dimples in the dirt, flooding out as they flatten to rest atop the hard-packed crust, slowly sinking in as the earth grudgingly bids them welcome.

The brave wildflowers and garden posies lift up as though on tippy toes, stretching as far as they can to catch every droplet of moisture possible, slaking their thirst, rustling their leaves as though fluffing their skirts, shaking off the old dust of summer; a last hurrah before the cold tightens its grip and cuts them down.

The whole of Wyoming is under siege. ShyAnne had tornado warnings, as did Glenrock, just a few miles from where we live. Thunder and lightening quickened our hearts and seared our eyes, while in other places hail fell hard and fast. Snow is predicted for the high, northernmost mountains. Roger, who is often called out because of such weather, labels them all the pestilence of the week, with a wry shrug of his shoulders.

No sly and gradual hints at autumn and winter for the high plains. All in a rush, they are here and, for now, I am glad of the change.

Katlaughing