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ode to a thunderstorm
Aug. 9th, 2012 10:42 pmThunderstorms are the BEST THING EVER, oh my god, you have no idea.
The tension and the humidity build all day -- sometimes the sky darkens and you think maybe, maybe, oh please maybe, but no, it passes -- and by the time you walk home at half past nine it's like plowing through liquid instead of air and heat lightning flashes soundlessly in the pitch-black sky, taunting you. And then at half past ten you hear, over the hum of the compressor and the rattle of the fan, the sound of thunder. And you rush to the kitchen and open the window and yes, there goes the lightning and after that, less than a second's gap, the sky grumbles and groans and a handful of something falls to clatter on the tin roof of your neighbor's garage. And you get out the emergency candles just in case, and take your flashlight from the hook by the door, and head out to the front porch and
the sky
cracks
open.
Water pounds down like the wrath of god to the thirsty earth. The bar across the street empties out, people running from the patio to their cars, and your neighbor rushes in from his evening walk, dripping, and shares a smile with you.
And you raise your hands to the sky and you laugh and laugh and motherfucking laugh.
Because finally, the storm is here.
The tension and the humidity build all day -- sometimes the sky darkens and you think maybe, maybe, oh please maybe, but no, it passes -- and by the time you walk home at half past nine it's like plowing through liquid instead of air and heat lightning flashes soundlessly in the pitch-black sky, taunting you. And then at half past ten you hear, over the hum of the compressor and the rattle of the fan, the sound of thunder. And you rush to the kitchen and open the window and yes, there goes the lightning and after that, less than a second's gap, the sky grumbles and groans and a handful of something falls to clatter on the tin roof of your neighbor's garage. And you get out the emergency candles just in case, and take your flashlight from the hook by the door, and head out to the front porch and
the sky
cracks
open.
Water pounds down like the wrath of god to the thirsty earth. The bar across the street empties out, people running from the patio to their cars, and your neighbor rushes in from his evening walk, dripping, and shares a smile with you.
And you raise your hands to the sky and you laugh and laugh and motherfucking laugh.
Because finally, the storm is here.
