Thunderstorm

Billowing white clouds shift gray as they assemble in serious soldier ranks along the distant horizon; rolling closer to glaze over the summer sky; freezing the blue surface like ice on a northern lake in winter; darkness blots out mid-day’s light. Far off, dusky streaks trace downward from massed cloud cliffs to hazy ground; row after row marching closer on rising wind streams and gusts. The dank musk of long dry earth suddenly dampened surges forward to proclaim the approaching cataclysm.  

A shifting curtain suddenly springs into view; rain and hail hurtling ground-ward with astonishing force, driving small and large divots into the bare earth, rebounding skyward from paved street, further obscuring the distance.

There is magic in lightning; and thrills in thunder. White fingers and flashes snapshot the dark and speak directly to every child’s core being; racing past guarding ears, eyes, and rationale.

Children dance in the streets and across the yards; willing the wonders of the approaching storm to visit upon them, life. Youth zings, rings, and brings every sense open to the energetic touch of tumult. Events inspire wonder; blood races, memories are etched into the alleyways of the mind. The unique species that is child runs just ahead of the drenching, shaking, atmosphere; outpacing any storm, of any strength, and any speed.

Huge drops splat laughingly on up-tilted faces and thrown open arms, soak thin fabrics, and flatten hair to skin across cascades of goose bumps. Pea–sized hailstones fall in rapid pursuit to pile across street and yard.

I recall many a mountain afternoon, sitting quietly, leaning back in the wind shade of a cliff face, looking outward and downward on smoking ozone and discharged ions flitting from cloud to cloud, cloud to tree, and cloud to mountain top.

Ears gloriously crushed by bass rumbles, counting seconds carefully, calculating distances. Eyes and thoughts filled with the wonder of nature at its most riotous.

I wonder now, less at the storms and more at the adults who have forgotten the glorious sensations of these rare events. Growing older has risen calluses on their imagination; thickened the skin of feelings; and caused arthritis in their emotions. As this storm flows past their windows, they simply sit inside and turn on a light.

But they have lost their life’s illumination. They have turned their backs on their senses. And thus, have doomed themselves to a dry desert of endless dismay.

© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved