Raining Branches and Eagles

Wind Blasts the Pines

Rain Melting Snow into Pools of Silver

Wind Overcomes Rain

Eagles Don't Fly Well in Wind Gusts

Branches Raining Down in Elmira

Branch as Big as a Hybrid Car

And Still He Shovels

Like a Burlington Northern freight train, wind blasts the house on Elmira Pond so hard that the foundation quivers. Wind blowing through pines is usually a succulent sound, but this is banshee-screaming, door-hinge ripping, pine-toppling wind.

After several storms rolled over the Cascades and pounded the Selkirks with a fist full of snow, our roof shed four-foot piles of drift-snow and our driveway became the tundra. Then rain swooshed over with warm, melting drops, pooling snow into swaths of silver puddles and heaping slush back onto the driveway.

Todd is pushing slush, unphased by 60 mph gusts.

Stepping outside, I'm attacked by the plastic chair crouching on the south porch. Untangling it from my legs before we both  trip over the edge, I see an eagle. Flinging the chair to the ground, it somersaults across slush in the mighty wind. The eagle bobs low beneath rain clouds. This is one of those moments where grace seems to disappear. I retreat inside the moaning, vibrating house.

Todd is a machine with a shovel; he doesn't even wobble in the wind.

Clouds break apart, scudding like sailboats attempting to break a world record for speed. The rain stops and I'm mesmerized by the roiling clouds and the return of blue sky like ever-changing swirls of finger paint. Winds screeches so loud at the south door, both dogs lift their heads momentarily before settling back into their nap. Sunshine flashes like lightening from behind bubbling clouds.

Todd is now swinging his shovel overhead.

The eagle that was bobbing in the wind is coursing out of control and Todd takes defensive action. I hustle out the door, fighting to close it when I hear a snap-pop. The eagle has managed to  fly off over the pond, heading to the stand of tamaracks, but now branches are breaking. Most are single boughs, but the 70-foot trio of Ponderosa pines in the front yard begin to rain down branches as big as hybrid-cars.

Two massive clusters, each big enough to be its own tree, crash to the ground. Smaller branches, twig-like in comparison begin pelting my legs like little whips. The wind is so crazy, it's silly. Who ever heard of it raining branches and eagles? Back into the house I scurry.

And Todd finishes moving slush off the driveway.

Join me in sharing a silly story on Sunday with blog host, Everything Susan.