Rain Storm

I love rain storms. I like it all: the smells, the sights, the sounds. We had a storm today and I felt I just needed to write about it (hello Ms. Muse!)

I sat on my porch in the old cracked green plastic Muskoka chair we have had for years. Our porch is old and comfortable: the roof leaks some but will still protect, the floor is flaking, warped wood slats. It is open on two sides and it faces west. The brick of my house was at my back.

I knew a storm was brewing: the sky was darkening over our neighbours' houses across the street, the temperature cooled and birds ominously stopped singing. The dark, cold silence was piercing.

Suddenly, the wind started whipping up a fury: trees bowed to its force and a lone bird looking for shelter was blown off course. Rumbling thunder rolled towards me from a long distance; muted but growling. The voice of Nature drowned out man-made noises; cars were muffled and sirens quieted. It grew darker; the air felt pregnant and vibrating, acknowledging the potential of Nature's fury and cleansing. A few hard rain drops fell; a staccato trumpet-flare announcing the arrival of change. The rain abruptly stopped and the atmosphere was filled with roaring anticipation. It felt as though Nature were balancing on a pin, waiting for the breath of a butterfly to unbalance it into the unbridled swirl of a storm. It grew darker. The wind howled and thunder rolled. Trees lashed back and forth in an slashing dance. The rain came. It pelted the ground and looked like violent ribbons of mist dancing to the music of the force of the wind. Sheet after sheet of rain traveled down the road, gliding off as need arose to find its own path. It rained and rained and rained.

I wanted to stand in the biting rain, arms outstretched to the sky, head back while my clothing whipped around me, like a Goddess of old, controlling Nature for her own desires. I was not a Goddess; I could not control Nature any more than I could return an oak tree to the acorn of its birth. I sat, dry, yet connected, the pulse of the storm like my own.

A sudden branch of lightning gave me a start. It brought with it the smell of ozone which mingled with the other smells of wet earth, damp cloth, and fecundity. Electricity punctuated the apex of the storm; Nature's strength in the pin point of explosion.

The rain gradually slowed then stopped, dripping like an almost-shut tap. A twist to the tap and the rain stopped. The wind gasped, then returned to an easy wafting. The sky brightened and softened. Noises returned to normal, clear and sharp. The world smelled fresh and crisp. It was like a new day dawning.

I gently stood, opened my door, and entered my house.