Mistral scrubbed the air clean yesterday. He brought out the big guns: Thunder boomed, lightning cracked, rain pelted in waves. In his madness branches snapped, mimosa blossoms scattered and fell to the gutter.
He lashed out at the pines, stripped them of spent cones and needles, reducing them to groaning and moaning masses fighting to stay upright while reeds bent or broke in frenzied twists.
The Med raged against him, rising in frantic waves, some two men tall or more. But he was pushing her relentlessly and she crashed again and again against rocks and piers in loud slaps, spitting her rent pain in diamond showers.
He would not relent; she tossed unmoored boats and garbage to slow him down, but Mistral blew them right back. Then the rain pouring down the mountain rushed her in wild torrents, carrying mud and debris as she was pushed inland with no where else to go….
After midnight, feeling victorious, Mistral had enough.
Winter sun rose, found her brown and blue, mourning her crystal waters, dry sobs escaping in sighs and whimpers, still hurting and trying to push away debris.
So he covered her in sparkles, warmed her frazzled waters and spread the bluest sky he could.