I whisper a secret prayer that it kills the machine dead in its destructive tracks at it tears up the road in front of our house. The noise is growing close to insufferable with the grinding of gears, the scooping and dumping, and the voices of the men in charge of the operation.
Now, the storm has passed.
The thunder stopped, lightning never struck, and the road work continues.
I curse the sky.
There is no justice in this world.