Stormy Weather

Lighting cleaves the dark sky asunder. The air trembles with thunder, with anticipation. Tonight is a night of drama, of expectations. Who knows what may happen? The bench is cold beneath me, the table rickety. These are small things compared with the majesty of the sky above me. The moon makes a brief appearance through the clouds, its light transient, fleeting. It is warm, muggy even. The sweat beads on my forehead; the show is about to begin. A bottle opener is produced. Think wine, friends, the botanical gardens and the most spectacular air display you could ever imagine. The wind picks up, soughing through the ragged pines above me. A sip shoots fire through my chilled limbs, there is little to say. All we can do is watch as the night unfolds. A smattering of cold drops, remnants of the previous downpour, fly off the trees. Sweet relief. The clouds are yellow, oily, ready to explode. I have never been here after dark, especially not during a thunder storm. I am excited, exhilarated, ready for the next rumble. We sit in the open, exposed to the elements, our fingers numb and our lips warm. Wine slides down our throats. We are masters of all we survey. This is our place. We belong. Our hair frizzes, crackling with tension. A fire is lit within. I am weightless, buoyant, lost in the sheer exuberance of the storm, all earthly ties severed. With one final crash, the heavens open, casting out their invigorating contents with little regard for plant, man, animal or building. We brace ourselves against the drops at first, shivering; then abandon ourselves to the rain, quenching our thirst and cleansing our very spirits. The shower is brief yet satisfying. The wine lies untouched as we dance for joy.