Rain

Thunder claps in the darkness. The soft blanket envelopes me like a cocoon. I feel safe next to my husband who snores softly, oblivious to the raging storm outside.

I love rain. The thirsty ground is soaking up every drop of life-giving water. My little green tree frog is confused; she has not left the deck. She took refuge from the deluge under the white railing, glued to the underside. I can barely spot her when I shine the flashlight.

My rose bushes are happy – the moisture makes them more fragrant and vivid in color. The wet dirt smells intoxicatingly alive.

Intense lighting casts ghostly shadows in the forest behind our house. Bogart must be trembling in his basket – he is always frightened by loud noise, especially thunder.

I peer outside the front door to make sure Old Glory is still bathed in light. It hangs wet and straight which rarely happens as the winds seldom die around our house. We live in the crosshairs of the Aeolian winds. They howl in wintertime with a painfully frigid bite and frightening pitch and soothingly hot in summertime.

The pond is almost overflowing. I hear gurgling sounds as the excess water is rushing down the drain. The wet grass is soaked, making squishy noises under my bare feet. A street light flickers and the power goes off for a second. We seldom lose power since lines are buried everywhere.

I circle the house to inspect the back yard. The French drain is working well. I hear creaking in the forest as if the trees are moaning under the heavy weight of wet leaves. Lightning casts a nanno-second of brilliance, illuminating the ink darkness.

The rain is making my cherry tree shed white petals slowly, dancing in the darkness with crystalline raindrops like a flutter of white butterflies. I hope there will be some flowers left on the tree tomorrow. Birds and insects get so excited, chirping and buzzing around the pistils.

Back inside, I check on Bogart, he is sound asleep, snoring and twitching. My feet leave wet marks on the wooden floor.