Trees, tall weeds swaying in the backyard. Cushions from patio chairs scurry across green grass. An umbrella shakes and bends. A siren goes off.

He sits in a kitchen chair, watching God’s wrath. Hail comes down. Balls bounce off his Ford. A windshield cracks. The old man shakes his fist at the sky as he has many times before. Cats are getting restless.

The widower opens the refrigerator and grabs a beer. The electricity goes out. He sits in the dark. Lightning makes the sky orange. He drinks his Old Style and pulls out a Marlboro from his pack. His fingers shake as he lights a match; burning down to his fingertips. Calluses have been there for years. Hail has turned to rain.

Thunder rolls in the sky. The sirens stop. He goes to the front door and opens it. Trees are down. Power lines stretch across the street. A work crew is on their way.

Cats sleep now. Another beer is opened. Soon, there will be light.