In the middle of a thunderstorm. One of those god’s wrath, break of a billiard rack, the dog is under the couch beauties that separates the bag from the pipes and reminds you that MOTHER NATURE IS IN CHARGE, thank you very much.
Short of an Irene or a winter of ’98 ice storm on the damage scale but still pretty powerful. Which makes it ideal for sitting through. Somehow the word rumbling was born of a good thunderstorm. Crescendo from the Latin crescere to grow or increase. The third movement of Vivaldi’s Concerto in A Minor. Currently somewhere over Putney but headed this way, up Westminster West, up and over Hartley Hill, descending on our little hamlet, adding a couple of inches to the depth of the Saxtons River.
As quickly as it hits, it passes, headed north and east. The rain which at times was heavy starts to soften, reminding metal roofs of their purpose. The sky remains dark but the threatening nature of the storm has given way to the gentler soaking rain. Now the only question remaining is how long will it rain? Will we be lucky enough to have it around at bedtime?
A late afternoon early evening storm is what you want. The earth has started to cool and things are sort of settling in for the night. A storm during the heat of the day often gives way to a hot sun that sends the fallen rain back into the air in the form of a brutalizing asthmatic humidity. A heading-to-dark rainfall blankets and grays outside and mesmerizes here on the porch. A good rain is like a good campfire.
Probably should head for the kitchen, the pizza dough may be doubled. God is good, the eight ball has fallen into a woven leather pooltable pocket and yo dude you can come out from under there, every little thing gonna be all right.
Love you. Peace. Peter
