Thunder--rolling thunder--I finally understand that phrase. This morning fierce booms and blasts of sound bounced violently off the mountainside in the East, shot across the valley and the lake, picking up volume and intensity and reverberated off the mountains to the west. It sounded almost fake, and in my minds' eye I saw a shabby gentleman covered in static dust waving on of those old sheets of tin used to produce thunder sounds for melodramas. What melodrama!
Then the rain came.
There were cracks and slashes of thunder followed by sluices of water charged with electric percussion. Terrific--literally. The sound raised the hair on my arms and the hinges of the door I passed through to get to the balcony hummed ominously. The damp air smelled of wet and hot asphalt and the dander of trees and woods in far off places.
I realized there was ozone in my nose and mouth right before the next cacophony of sound hit. It was a bit like eating dusty poprocks--the sound within my mouth and head, as if my taste buds had ears. To the south the air was clean and bright, halcyon playing off Mt. Nebo like Mt. Olympus. To the north the air, inky black, leaked into a sullen dark green on the horizon. The air shimmering with sound, moisture beaded on my hair--that would not be straight today. I opt of jeans and flip-flops instead of slacks and heals--something I do almost everyday, but today felt like I was being weather savy and wise.
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