The white and gray clouds tumble over the mountains. They leave splashes of white as they crash over the neighborhoods and obscure the mountain dwellers in mist. Those who live there are used to the precipitous ministrations of the gods. Those who see it from a distance, see something else.
Under a green canopy of vegetation I take refuge from the storm. The mango trees, with their fruit just beginning to appear, fling their branches, wildly stirring the cauldron into a frenzy like the angry sea off Makapu’u.
I hear the sound of rain. The droplets that are pattering on my red Nissan Rogue remind me that this is just a brief respite from the coming storm.