A Convo with Ms. B

Brighde came storming in today.  Knocked down two trees in Napa just to prove a point.

I was all, what are you on about?

You were champing at the bit to get here.  Sent a robin to announce your arrival while we were still doing the Midwinter thing, fer feck’s sake. You’ve already covered the vineyards in mustard’s gold.  Just yesterday you showed me a pair of courting hawks, calling to each other as they circled swift and lazy at the top of the sky.

And here, on the eve of your festival, you open up the heavens and let loose le deluge?

She gave me a withering glance you’d think would be beyond someone of her seasonal temperament —

— but dang if it didn’t suit her.

What are you on about, old lady?

I’m not one the turned up the heat till a sweet, spring rain boiled into a tempest.  Not my fault the winds that blow through Imbolc’s gates rip through your trees like the death cry of an innocent babe rips through a mother’s heart.

Sure, I can give you pileated woodpeckers and breathtaking cloudscapes some days.  On cross-quarter days, you travel at your own risk.

So I did.  Took the risk, drove with all due respect.

Wasn’t too worried.  I was daring the elements to meet with a pair of courting humans, and then to dance.  Brighde’s a sucker for lovers and the Mother of All Arts.  I knew she’d see me safe there, and safe home again.