by Philip Tarlow
Editor’s note: This story originally ran in the January 2009 issue of the Crestone Eagle.
The sky turned deep purple-gray as I sat by Cottonwood Creek. Hailstones began raining down on my head, bouncing off my painting surface; watercolor paper taped to a piece of plywood.
The spring runoff roared, virgin pale green leaves shook, water leapt and splashed on ancient rocks. New moisture released fragrances from the earth and foliage that made you swoon. I was in heaven; why get up just because a bit of hail was falling? The tempo increased and I was in a hailstorm. I reluctantly packed up and returned home, imagining myself the brave warrior.