"Just now as I watched the ever-changing beauty, I saw a cloud pass over the earth on long grey [sic] stilts of rain. And then as I looked I saw its shape and knew that over the pueblo moved the Thunder Bird. With wings outspread he slowly passed, broad tail sweeping the thirsty earth. Down from his breast fell feathers of rain and out from his heart the lightning flashed its message to the people that the gods never forget. Thnuder roared from his long black beak and all earth sounds were hushed. He has gone, leaving only his mark on the land, but I still see his broad wings stretched, and the white rain-feathers dropping from his breast. And any fear, lingering from those childhood days when I, unafraid, was made to fear lightning, has gone. Did it not come from his heart? If it should seek me out or find me wandering in its path, would it not take me back with it? I should not mind going so much if I could look down on beauty like earth's today." - Edith Warner, September 1929

"From my window I can see a storm coming down from the mountains. The white mist spills over the arm of the mountain. I can hear the heavy rain beating across the canyon. Thunder rolls in antiphonal effect from peak to peak. The wind surges down from the mountains, spills into the canyons, wells up with an added strength against the house. The green curtans flatten themselves against the window as if they were hunted things. After all this frenzy of preparation at last only a few silly drops spill onto the roof of the garage. Was the storm only a pretense? No, the mist I thought was thinning has gathered again. It is marching nearer like the gray shadow of an army. A swift flame leaps across it and crashes into thunder. Now the rain wrestles with the wind for mastery in the tree tops. It pours down from the clouds like a river. How strange the trees look, like ghosts caught in a gray curtain. The rain is all between and among them. It is a world of the newly dead groping in a purgatory without color. Humans creep now beneath what little shelter they can, and whisper and touch cold hang to hand till the storm is past. They dare not be caught when the rain gods march." - Peggy Church, August 1929