Right now, beyond the coziness of the darkened Lair lit only by my old dragonfly Tiffany-style desk lamp, a storm is raging. The rains are descending in torrents...the skies are flashing...the thunder is growling menacingly...the air is heavy with wetness. And yet, this storm, like others since moving to this state, feels cleansing. Negativity is washing away...hesitation is running down sidewalks and street gutters...new hope is pooling on lawns and around new shoots of crocus and daffodils.
It came on suddenly, rather like a brilliant idea which strikes the thinker when his mind wanders into trifles. The clouds turned gun-metal grey, the early songbirds silenced their morning reverie, and the first drops stained the dry walkways. And then the skies opened and the ground welcomed the battering rains. People caught out in the deluge scurried like so many woodland creatures to cover--cars, overhangs, trees (not bright in a thunderstorm, but functionally effective for a moment).
In the warmth of the Lair, I listen. The ebb and flow of the rains, the rumble of distant thunder as the storm slowly moves off, the silence between the stages of the deluge.
In the promise of the Moonlight...
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