An August thunderstorm here arrives like a door slamming — twenty hard minutes over Lake Olmstead, then steam rising off every driveway in town. Grass answers that rain overnight, and the mower has to answer the grass. Cutting resumes as soon as the ground firms, with trimming around the beds, a crisp edge at the concrete and the clippings cleared off the walk. Storm litter comes out of the yard too, the small limbs and shredded leaves a summer squall leaves scattered. What remains is a yard that looks calm again, which after a week like that feels like a small kindness.