My brother left a bowl of Rainier cherries on the kitchen counter this morning. Drops of water still hugged the red and yellow curves. No one was around, they wouldn’t be missed. I took the bowl out to the back porch.
The porch sat on a bluff overlooking a bunch of fields in the valley. I sat gnawing remaining cherry flesh that clung to the small pit, when the waves of grain began to sway wildly. Dark thunderclouds were rumbling up the valley; they were not malicious cracks, but long grumbles announcing their presence.
As the number of cherry pits grew in the bowl the rumbles grew louder. An occasional flash preceded them. I moved against the house when the rain and strong gusts came. The storm was thrilling, the cherries were firm. The thunder embodied power, the cherries tasted sweet. The lightning was shocking, the cherries finished tartly.
I watched, listened to, and felt the storm blow over our bluff as I continually freeed a pit from the sweet juiciness of the Rainier cherry.