The sun drifts down into the trees of the horizon like a glowing hot air balloon missing its landing space in the green field of ryegrass.
A roaring echo of thunder rolls across the sky for too long. It is not thunder but a jet moving east, a non-stop to Istanbul, or a red-eye to Beijing. The inside of that plane must be lit up with a mix of the setting sun’s red and the overhead reading light’s bright amber.
Cool air blows down from the Alps and blends with warm from the south. Rain clouds form and the sky falls in sheets, buckets, cats and dogs.
The farmers welcome the rain, but not too much, just enough to prevent the setting up of irrigation systems for their hectares of corn and soybean. Those in town welcome the rain for its initial novelty, and this quickly fades into visions of puddles to be avoided and the windshield wipers blurring the morning commute.