I got stuck in my car at lunchtime today, due to a wicked* thunderstorm. It started when I was down at Heritage Park, with the sky turning a menacing black and the trees swaying wildly in the wind. I rolled up the windows and headed back to work just as the skies opened up. I didn't want to get soaked, so I sat in the parking lot while pea-sized hail pelted my Hyundai. Since I was stuck there for a few minutes at least, I got out my Moleskine and started writing:
Thunderstorms are sentient. Rolling through, making lots of noise, threatening. "Get to shelter!" they shout, as the thunder gets louder and the flashes brighter. A few warning drops fall. Trees bare the undersides of their leaves like flags, loose bits of plant matter scatter across pavement. Trees tremble in fear, suddenly thinking that maybe being tallest isn't such a good thing after all. As the storm gets closer, it drops its load in torrents and gusts that come in waves. If you listen closely, you can hear laughter underneath the thunder as the storm looses its power. Creatures huddle, hiding until it's safe to come out again. Suddenly, it's over; all that is left is a few stray leaves and the trickle of water running toward the storm drains. The storm has moved on to the next town, to wreak its havoc in another place.
I grabbed my umbrella, just in case, and went back to work.
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*Why yes, I live in New England, why do you ask?
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