Winds of Madness

MAdness rides the wings of the Yugos  -- those hot, dry winds from Africa -- as they wheel and whistle through the ship's masts and croon crazily careening down narrow stone streets.  THey came at dusk.
. 
AT 6 a.m. it was still 80 degrees.  I put together my pack, pick up some water and apples at the village store, and climb out of town up the steep and rocky old path to Bobovisca.  I do a loop on the old roads, from Milna to Bobovisca na Moru, then up to Bobovisca proper, then over the hill and back down to Milna. 

THe dry hot summer had burnished everything.  THere was still the green of the pine and gray green of the olive leaves, the sky and sea were blue, but  everywhere else was bleached yellow, or burnished brass, mahoghany, rich oiled leather, gleaming chocolate.  THe stones in the walls lining the path grew bluer as the day heated.

THat evening brought the storm.  SHarp, cracking thunder directly over head, great sheet lightning, and heavy rain.

I sit with my doors open, facing the weather, watching the rain bounce off my patio, and continue reading The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf.

BElow me on a neighbors roof there is a sudden explosion and a cloud of angry sparks.  SOmething has popped.