Don't you love a good thunderstorm?
Blue skies mixed with deep gray and the bright white of thunder clouds? Sitting and waiting their passing, watching the skies southward blend to light gray as rain begins to fall but only the wind in your face deduct their passing?
Winds blowing hither and yon, thunder in the distance, clouds scurrying in various speeds, various levels of atmosphere? Birds dipping and coasting, riding the crazed waves of winds and wind speeds?
The surface of your wine (or libation) rippling in anticipation, or dread or joy, heralding the coming storm?
The smell of ozone in your nostrils and chilled winds in your hair while the sweat rolls down your back some summer afternoon?
Lakes turning steel gray in the wind as it shifts, heralding a northern stammer of strong gusts, leaves blowing into your back and winding up in your hair?
Winds swirling upon the lake, whipping whitecaps into peaks of froth that swirl to the west, then to the east, in abandon, changing directions as the storm intensifies and atmosphere booms?
Watching as boats race to shore, to slips, to boat houses, to marinas, to sheltering coves, only to be overtaken by the stormy mists that envelope them?
Observing the lake pelted by strong rains that quieten waves and the lake roils murky, oily and dark while the storm passes?
After the storm's passage a sun-drenched rainbow appears while rain continues to the east?
The rainbow arches to the lake in front of you, but there's no pot of gold?
Thunderstorms are such a blessing. A true force of nature that could go either way - heaven or hell - Godsend or demons - nurturing earth or stripping the life force from the soil.
I love thunderstorms for their honesty and purity of spirit. There's no mistaking the intent - the symptoms are clear. Atmosphere must be cleansed, water must be clarified, nutrients must be superimposed into the earth, people must understand their place. Thunderstorms are the great equalizer. Heed them, but enjoy the moment as special and pure.