A few nights ago, at the height of summer’s temper, after a hot humid day and into a mourning night, a squall line ran over the city like raging bulls at a stampede.
I scrambled to the roof to snap a few shots as the sky readied itself for a kill, dark, loaded and powerful, and I jumped back in to safety while the first rain drops were splattering on my lens and wind drafts born some 30,000 feet above the city ran through the neighborhood with furious zeal.
Later, as Marie and I ate our supper pondering the night’s madness, lightning struck a nearby church. God was tickled, rolled over in his sleep and as He did so, brushed against the steeple and dislodged a few stones that plummeted to the street.
A man was killed. It was so close, and yet so far.
“I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumours
But I think that God’s got a sick sense of humor
And when I die I expect to find Him laughing”
Depeche Mode – Blasphemous Rumours