Friday evening, sprawled on the couch with the cat, watching yet another thunderstorm roll in. The southeastern sky is dark, cloud on cloud in shades of gray and black. The western sky is clear, and the setting sun streams across the landscape, nearby trees picked out in high relief.
Every time a gust of wind curls around the maples, hundreds of propellers break free, whirling their way across the neighborhood, lit up as if by a spotlight. Some of them find their way into the courtyard, spinning past my window, bright against the gray as they spiral downward.
The cat has wandered off, but I sit entranced by the spectacle of hundreds of tiny helicopters glowing in the sun.
And now the rain begins, the highlights have gone, and the next generation of maples washes into crevices where some will take root.