I saw no sign of its approach.
Except the sky began to darken.
And then darkened some more.
Until this August daylight turned deep-winter gray and I needed a lamp to light my way through the house.
Soft rumbles that could have been an airplane passing high overhead soon deepened.
The question, Was that a plane or thunder?, crossed my lips.
Even the cat didn’t yet squirm, though her bright blue eyes were wide with attention.
And then it hit:
Cat took refuge under the bed.
Rain pummeled the skins and feathers of wild beings as well as the human surfaces of deck, roof, skylight, window, car, planters.
Maple, Fir, Alder, Madrone, Hemlock, Grass, Fuchsia, Lavender, Pear.
Rooted where they are and standing in homage to Storm.
Junco, Sparrow, Coyote, Bumblebee, Wasp, Slug, Rabbit – all of whom had been living here a few minutes earlier – were now in some protected and hidden place in this, our shared landscape and home.
The torrent was accompanied by a rhythmic, rolling drumbeat that continuously moved south to north across the firmament. A horizontal, sweeping texture of sound.
I was reminded of Grandpa teaching young me to count in fancy words (“one lo-co-mo-tive,” rather than my childish, “train”) between the flash and the roar. Those humid East Coast summer visits and rainsplashes are written all over the walls of my becoming.
Sometimes trembling me.
Sometimes enlivening me.
Barely perceptible flashes flicked on in close intervals. Though in my mind I saw zigzagging bolts in cartoonish drama with each shift of lightning.
I went outside repeatedly during this microstorm:
Sniffing the rainscent.
Recording the sounds.
Mimicking Lily and her kin in the garden by raising my eager face toward the clouds for a nature bath. A holy washing.
Laughing and praising Earth and Sky for these unexpected gifts.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit:
