A Morning Thunderstorm

The rain is coming down and soft rolls of thunder are drifting in from the west, making this a wistful morning. Lucy isn't a fan of wistful. She slinks around, lower to the ground than is necessary, alert for the next peal of thunder, like a battle-fatigued GI waiting for another incoming mortar round. I try to reassure her that everything is fine, but she isn't buying it. She trembles from head to toe, hunkering down in our closet for the duration of hostilities. It gets darker suddenly, a large storm cloud loaded with rain hovers overhead, blocking the sun, then empties its payload in a mighty rush of wind and fury.  Somewhere up there a wave of thunder is born and becomes an adolescent ten seconds later, and by the time it shakes the windows of my house it has transformed into an angry old man. The raindrops get larger and more determined, splatting on my sidewalk like tiny Kamikaze pilots onto the deck of the Intrepid. By this afternoon it will be sunny, and the rain brought by this storm will begin doing its life giving work. Why we are not amazed by this is anybody's guess.