When the sky was tourmaline green with blue-white diamond inclusions the plains of Missouri were overrun, strokes of rain pummeled hellward. A community sprang up from the mud as volunteer after volunteer would fill feldspar tinted bags with sand or soil, lug them, lay them near the towns bordering the city of St. Louis—the lower Missouri, the Mississippi, River des Peres, tributaries, rivers crested, levees broke.
When the jolted sky became peridot Midwest winds swirled concrete blocks one hundred and ten miles per hour. The family quarreled into the basement, the rain diminished in the eye—a brilliant black opal with a rolling flash hoping to avoid a crack.
When the sky was a black pearl sprung from an elusive south sea oyster which could not be found in lagoons, but had to be dived for in a rare number of deep ocean habitats— surrounded by spectacular reflections of fine pearl lightening as it scoured a natural wonder, the mile deep Arizona gorge. Too scared to pull over for fear of being washed away, too scared to touch the metal in the car for fear of electrocution, too glad to have on tennis shoes (no matter if protection by shoes could have been an urban myth). The fractured monsoon launches an amber sun, breakfast of eggs, four strips of crispy bacon, and buttery toast.
But the Oregon sky is infinitely the villain, a lack luster smoky quartz, partly cloudy, partly sunny. No brilliant sparkle of lightening. Rain here is not rare. Like agates, ametrine, amethyst, citrine, onyx, rose quartz, rutilated quartz, people take precipitation for granted. Disconsolate, it is a chameleon standing in for more expensive cousins—the deluge of radiant green emeralds, passionate thunderstorm rubies, snowy diamonds. Denizens easily seduced by the heroic singularity of an evening sapphire sky.
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