On Storm Euphoria

What is it about the storm on the horizon? All of the earthly hues become dulled, desaturated, as though their vibrancy was tapped to fuel the roiling darkness in the sky. What is it about the ebb and flow of the wind waves, the way they tousle the trees and leave them shimmering with nervous energy? The leaves struggle to right themselves, to hide their pale, exposed underbellies. Then a flash in the clouds; brief and bright, diffusing through the sky like the firing of some Godly synapse. What is it about the slow, low crescendo that sounds seconds later, the guttural, escalating rumble that never fails to catch one by surprise? Car windows are rolled up, fans are taken out of windows, children are ushered indoors. What is it about the pleasure of anticipation? The delight of an impending summer storm? What is it about the cerebral tickle that such empyreal foreplay affords?

And why, like some fleeting spirit, must it vanish when the first drops make their violent contact with the earth?