Normanday #71: I walk my pet rock three times a day.
Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…
First the wind comes in gusts. Not quite a warning. More of a hint. You pull me inside and soon we’re in bed, you curled by my feet on top of the blanket. The wind presses against the window. There’s a rumble of thunder, and another, and another. Flashes of light follow. Suddenly a sound like ice cracking in a glass of warm soda sends you scurrying under the covers. Cuddled safely under the covers we listen to the storm together and drift to sleep.