Pegasus, and Flying Fish, and Woodmen Made of Tin

Clouds growing ever thicker each time I glanced upwards hovered in the sky all day, finally darkening to ominous bruised masses just as we left home to drive to Dallas for workshop. In Starbucks, one of the places we stopped on the way, a baristo tried to wager $100 that it would not actually rain.

I should have taken the bet, because the skies opened up three minutes into our journey. While I tracked flashes of lightning, Fuzzy turned up the radio, and focused on driving. In my head, though, I was in a boat chasing sharks on choppy seas.