The Season of Disasters

The year came in innocently 
enough. We got some work done on the house. New
roof. Updated cupboards. New
furnace. Our son came to visit
from Seattle with his small children. 
there was news of
a virus spreading rapidly in 
China and
A friend in Ecuador suggested 
we buy some masks, just 
in case, because
Atlanta, being an international air hub, 
you never know. We
bought two boxes of masks at 
the corner drugstore.

We began to hear the corona virus was here
and spreading. Should I go to the
dentist? How about those 
other appointments that seemed to be coming up 
fast. Canceled those just
as it was advised to stay home if 
closed for the duration.

We got used to the virus. We were all okay.
Working from home, or retired or 
hopeful. Our street was
quiet and as usual, 
except for a few masked walkers. 
We learned to order and
pickup our food. We found sources
of fresh food and we were doing well. 
Except for
those disturbing reports 
from Detroit and the nursing home
down the street where people were 
dying en masse. But things had
sort of settled into a

Some people got angry about 
wearing masks and heavily armed began 
to appear at government offices to 
protest, to

When the police kneeled on George Floyd’s 
neck for nine minutes, someone 
caught it on cellphone. Protests, 
bigger than anything since the 60s. 
All the pent
up rage exploding. More 
shootings, old shootings, new
shootings. More demonstrations, 
tear gas, rubber and
real bullets.

The killer bees or wasps turned out to 
be a red herring. But
right now sand from the Sahara Desert 
is coming ashore along the
coast. More than in living memory, 
crossing the Atlantic to come to Puerto
Rico and the Sea Islands. To 
make breathing hard and 
sunsets beautiful from Florida to 
New Orleans and beyond.

The pandemic continues. Police 
brutality continues. How long before the
plume of sand comes ashore, I don’t know. 
What’s next?
Meteorites? A 
roving black hole? Wild Fires? 
Hurricanes? Invasion from
outer space?