Everywhere water is a thing of beauty
gleaming in the dewdrop, singing in the summer rain.
John Ballantine Gough
Having a small garden in the back yard may have reconciled me a bit more towards summer storms; enough, at least, to begin appreciating their elements rather than responding in fear. In proof of that, an excerpt from a bit of journal writing, a few weeks back:
The first of the summer storms has just rushed past.
Thirty minutes ago, the light dimmed, and laborious rumbles of thunder broke out. And then, as though a sluice gate had been opened overhead, rain. A monsoon-like out-pouring of rain: no longer drops, but long, straight silver rods of water, lined up so closely as to obscure sight past a few dim feet. For the space of ten minutes, our house was the hollow behind a waterfall that poured past the windows and turned the world silver and grey.
Then–light. Golden beams and diamond droplets. Colors gleamed, water-glazed to a greater intensity.
The storm had passed, as suddenly as it came. I ran outside to join in the glimmering, joyful, life left in its wake.