The temperature was in the high 70s when I got up yesterday and the skies were darker than usual in the pre-dawn hours. By eight a.m., the air outside was a wet, heavy 80 degrees.
Storm’s a-brewin’. And before long, it hit.
In the forest, there’s always something thrilling about a storm. About the way the pines whip and scrape the sky as if spurring on the wind. The sway of the sturdy oaks and elms encourage prayer that they are indeed sturdy. Even the lily pads ripple in the wind. The gray, rain-pelted pond rises until its waters threaten to cover the steadfast pier. Lightning pierces the sky–one one-thousand, two one-thousand–and thunder echoes through the clouds. Limbs crash to the ground, and damage inspection is delayed until Mother Nature rests, spent from her rage.
The ducks stand aligned on the pond bank like mismatched soldiers with their bills resting on curled necks; squirrels hug tree limbs and sway with the wind. But once the storm settles, all the animals come alive in celebration. The Quack Pack flap their wings as if beating their chests and race to the water–Last one in’s a roasted duck! Squirrels scurry on the ground to see what treasures were shaken from the trees. At rest from the wind, the lily pads blanket the pond, and their flowers open with a sigh of relief. And the pond itself, a ripply gray one moment, is a calm muddy brown the next, troubled only by the ducks rejoicing in its waters.
Inside, I open a window to let in the cool 65 degree breeze. Thunder-frightened cats come out of hiding to sit on the sill and sniff the air.
And I sit with my coffee, watching, and thank the Lord that all is safe.