I sat there in the open doorway with the dog on my lap, looking out into the night and the flashing lightning and rolling thunder and rain streaming off the roof, out there where just hours ago a family of Wrens chattered in the Oak tree, hiding behind clumps of ball moss. But now the Wrens were surely gone.
The thunder crashed as the lightning flashed, and the dog gave some thought to dashing out into the night to challenge it, but I caught him as he leapt and thrust him back into my lap.
Behind us, the boy played his trombone, chromatic scales and arpeggios, starting low and going high. Each time his notes climbed, the dog gave up his thunder quest and began to sing along with the boy, nose pointed to where the just-full moon must be, starting low and going high.
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