the impossibilities of earthquakes

i remember my first earthquake. my eyes were closed, and it was dark outside. i wasn't sleeping, because the dog was licking her paws next to the bed. it was warm, and all of the windows were open. the feeling i had was pre-thunderstorm. if there had been clouds, they would have been green, the way they get before a tornado. we know nature, but we don't like to listen to it.

the order of events:
1. a rumble like a bus, down the road, pulling away from a bus stop.
2. the bus grows. it no longer rolls, but it stomps. it is a bus monster.
3. the bus is not one bus monster, but a herd of bus monsters. they stomp up the canyon.
4. just before they get to my front door, the dog stops licking her paws. her ears go up, and she lets out a small bark.
5. the bus monsters pass through us like ghosts. they rattle the things hanging on the walls. they open the refrigerator door. they use the coffee table to tap out morse code on the floor.
6. and just like that, they're gone. i can hear them rumbling over the hill across the street. birds have taken flight. there is no wind, no due north, and my heart is racing like i've just fallen in love.

because, where i come from, it was always taken for granted that the earth was not about to move.

what they don't teach you in school: it's not only earthquakes that can shake up a world, and it can sometimes be quite a lovely thing.