That muffled thud is an apple dropping off the Winesap tree. It's that time of year.
The distant grumble, growing ever nearer and more insistent, is thunder. Lots and lots and lots of thunder. It's that time of year.
The relentless swish and swash and rushing is water, Falling from the sky. In bucket loads and bushels and big, bad, bunches. At least a couple of inches overnight. I guess it's that time of year.
That sharp, alarming, crack, awaking innocent sleepers long before the sun (what sun, seriously, it's 8 AM and dark as the Devil's armpit today) comes up? That, yeah, that's part of the bedroom ceiling falling on the dresser. It's that time of....
Wait!
What!
Oh, no!!
