The Thunder Storm

There was a storm forecast for just after midnight, so I went to close the windows in my living room.

In the dark I could see the storm coming. The clouds were lit up from inside, silently flashing in the dark, humid night, marbled deep blue and purple and grey. The water of the wharf outside was flat as glass, with the occasional pin prick of rain. Save for the rolling clouds driving up from the south west and the ominous silent flashes of lightning hidden in the clouds, the night was utterly still.

Slowly, the flashes grew closer and closer, each lighting and showing the skeleton of its cloud – the dark thick patches like a sea creature’s plates beneath its skin.

The surface of the water began to ripple in bars across its surface as the wind grew and pushed between apartment blocks. Deep in the southern sky the flashes and spasms of light grew more frantic and urgent as the electrical storm spread itself across the land.

After forty minutes of waiting, watching lightning leading the procession, it arrived and in the space of five minutes went from occasional prickle to torrential downpour. The surface of the water, flat glass a moment before, danced under the drumbeat rain, coils of rain whipping and thrashing across the water floor in ecstatic fervour.

Of course I stuck my head out. What living, breathing human wouldn’t? Soon the rain was coming in, however, and I had to shut the window.

In my bedroom, the lights off, the storm gave another few cracks in quick succession, two short booms and a final, sudden snap-crack. It felt as though the sky was falling and after the crack, it rumbled around the sky for a good long while, its drums driving out the last vestiges of sticky humidity from the city, leaving us fresh. Leaving us clean.

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