Lear’s Lost

“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!
Rage, blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!

King Lear (III.ii.1-3)

Or, more properly Lear’s lost it.

He’s wandering the blasted heath, his Fool in tow.

Sunday morning there was a singular image in my feeds, showed the perfect answer to what was happening, in South Texas, the novel-corona-thing spreading like wildfire, and then, a hurricane?

Hurricane Hanna. Just shy of three years? Hurricane Harvey?

Anyway, the singular image, a twisted, turbulent coastline, presumably South Padre, North Padre, or even just Corpus Christi, but into the gaping maws of the hurricane? A lone surfer, having the ride of his life.

Normal people, “90 MPH winds; seek cover!”

Texans, “90 MPH winds, treacherous conditions, grab your long board! Surf is UP!”

Lear’s Lost

“You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout / Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!”

# Hurricane