I'd call it: Mr. Caldera leaves his calling card

In this chapter the Author Freaks Out, Various Cracks Appear and Profanity strengthens a Mother-Daughter Relationship

This morning when I wandered into the kitchen to make tea, I happened to look up.  I was rudely greeted by a fresh crack in the ceiling, straight as a yardstick and running between two of our canister lights. 

I had just set the shower to fabulously warm when I noticed, beneath the window sill, a question-mark shape curling from the edge of the molding toward the bathroom cupboard.  Oh.  My.  Heck, as they would never say in France.  Another crack.

My thoughts went straight to Yellowstone's earthquake swarms.  I imagined their shaky little fingers shimmering under the Tetons and beyond to rattle the bones of my house.  I pictured the caldera floor rising (which it does every year, BTW), only this time rising by feet instead of mere inches on it way to going ballistic.

I felt a jolt of panic, just then.

I was fetching my computer from the bedroom and couldn't keep myself from looking up.  There, ON MY CEILING, was a fresh crack running the width of the room.  Then I saw another, splitting outward from the door molding.  My computer, the very one I'm typing on at this moment, slipped from my tender grasp to clatter all over the floor.  Bits of it fell off.  My screen went dark.  I swore a stream.

My husband restored my computer to its current glory and the cracks, well.  I found three more.  I've since dug out the joint compound and dry-wall tape and fresh paint and my acceptance.  We live on a living planet, right?  It's going to surprise us at times.  So I apologized to my daughter for using the language of drunken sailors in her young and impressionable presence and promised: I'll do my best to take nature in stride . . .