Murmurs turn to sporadic mutters. Thunder.
The great debate ensues: to close or not to close the windows. Such a hassle if nothing comes of it. There are fifteen of the big suckers on two floors.
A flash of lightning. You count the seconds to gauge the distance. Check the trees to gauge the speed of the wind.
Mutters escalate to growls. You squeeze your eyes against the strobing light.
Zigzag. Zigzag. BOOM! Floosh!
Shoulda closed the darn windows. Run, crank, run, push, run, slide. Don’t forget the door. Slam!
The bowling balls are rolling. The disco ball is flashing. The gods are having one heck of a party. Doncha wish you were invited?
The storm blows eastward, casting nasty growls and dirty looks over its shoulder. The grateful, yet bedraggled, plants and trees wave goodbye, flicking off the last of the rain drops. The sun grins at dominating the skies once again.
Left behind in the bay, a gift from the grouch, are frothy whitecaps. Streamers left over from the party, they curl over and woosh up the beach.
Now it’s time for mortals to play. Out come the noodles and boogie-boards. Kids and adults dip and dunk, flop and fly, in the waves. Drag and drip ashore.
Take your breath away, first with awe then with laughter. I love a friendly storm. Don’t you?
© Joan Leacott 2012 photo credit: Stuck in Customs via photo pin cc