Wild and extreme and unpredictable. The mountainous wind tore through the town. The well meaning man from New England had been miss informed about it not being possible for tornadoes to strike here. He said the mountains protected this area, but when witnessing the spectacular view from the Denver/Boulder Turnpike, I can see no reason why a tornado couldn’t travel North to South, or South to North, afterall everything is possible, at least here everything is possible.
Later the moon is full and huge and yellow and is hanging in a southern Colorado sky and the wind is howling and the walls are shaking and so am I. The prairie dogs are huddled in their burrows, sensible precautions for the raging wind and the night predators who stalk the suburbs, casting large shadows on gable walls and swallowing domestic animals whole.
My toes peek out from beneath the bed covers, as do my wide saucer eyes. Tornado potential wind and werewolves! Sleep is elusive, as elusive as the moon rites of spring. Easter follows the first pagan full moon after the vernal equinox. Christ is arisen just in time for the pagan spring.
I do sleep and I do dream this wild night. I dream of dead relatives. I dream of mixed up communications and mixed up scenes, like in a dreadful American B movie. Then very shortly, before I awake to the day, Easter day, I dream of a blue horizon sky and golden yellow wheat bright and glowing. And I dream of a cross made of sheaves raised against the blue horizon, above the field.