There is Nothing

There is nothing like a thunderstorm. After three years of too few, I no longer take them for granted and celebrate each one that I can.

When the rain is deluging down and hitting the kitchen windows so hard it sounds like hail, when the dog haunts my footsteps because of thunder, then the world condenses. Everything becomes milky green, a washed combination of water and growth. Everything narrows and widens into this one thing, something more than water and wind and receptive soil. Twisting and beating the storm forces barriers to drop and life becomes a roar and a wetness.

There is nothing else.

Then

it passes.

Drops sparkle like original diamonds. A robin shakes herself on the fence. Thunder individuates in the east. Two birds call in stereo, liquid gurgles and splashes from the eves and downspouts. An airplane can be heard, a squirrel investigates a wet bit of pine bark, traffic splashes up and down the street.

Life breathes and resumes.