The sibilant hiss as blades of grass whisper beneath the deeper mysterious rustlings of palm fronds stirring in the stormy wind. The taste of distant rain wafts about my face, tugging playful fingers through hair and clothes as lightning dances majestically across the clouded night sky. Thunder softly rumbles, then roars almost too low to be heard, vibrating my bones as I turn my face skyward in joy. The breeze crests and ebbs, making coy promises that it alone cannot fulfill. The skies hold back the rain as a miser with liquid treasure.
Blinding flashes quicken and pulse, leaping swiftly ahead of their audible companions. Rolling echoes of not-quite grasped words, spoken by some great throat, bringing a smile as they travel far and wide, delighting and confounding my eagerly listening ears. I care not that the language of thunder escapes me. It is not a worry that my breath is stolen by the stunning beauty and brilliance of the lightning. I savor every moment, every moisture-laden gust of wind that caresses me. I soak in every errant drop of rain. I, just for these few minutes, live and thrive on the sustenance of light and sound, food for the soul as gifted to me by my Lord.
To me, how lovely is a storm!
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