Storm

A few nights ago the cloudy sky reminded of me of Oregon in spring.
At night bolts of lightening flashed just as the Blackhawks landed from their flight. I stood on the crow's nest Sgt. Boyce was building and tried to take photographs. Then came the rain. The soldiers walked out to the flight line, their little shadowy figures tied down the monstrous rotor blades so they wouldn't break away. As everyone, damp from the desert rain, took cover under the trailer roofs I sat underneath the little bunker with my misty camera lens and soggy hair. I watched the lightening come, turning the sky pink behind the helicopter silhouettes.
Listening to the drops of water splatter into large puddles reminded me of weekend camping trips to the wilderness. Now humid eucalyptus trees replace the smell of snowy spruce, and the silence of the forest is replaced by the constant torment of generators pumping lights into our nights.
Inside the compound a soldier planted sunflowers. They stood stoically throughout the storm in little green bouquets against the ugly gravel, drunk from the sudden onslaught of fresh water.