Churning Beauty

Nothing beats the sound, touch, and sight of a good (non-severe) thunderstorm. The darkening sky dimming the window-lit rooms to an ashen twilight, causing one to peer out from behind a curtain and between the blinds to see the wind rough-housing with the trees to the point of seeing little shiny green leaf underbellies fluttering and clutching to their mommy branch. Such wind then rattles against the sides of the house, begging for play time with the things on the front porch, the back.

One such magnificent storm bellied its way over my home. One look outside and the camera was fetched to catch the lowered, churning ceiling. It was beautiful, standing with the screen door propped open, letting the suddenly cool air flush into the house along with the occasional shelter-seeking leaf. The rain had not yet started, though several tiny flecks warned of the coming downpour. Once my photo-taking thirst was quenched, I ran to the back door, pressing my nose to the glass to watch as the darkest of the clouds slid over the treetops and beyond. Soon after came moans of thunder and licks of lightning split the bellies of the clouds and released the wondrous drops.

The lights flickered once in this snuggy casa, but the power goes out often here. It's perhaps even snugglier then than when the electricity is on because candles are gathered from all over the house and placed on the piano, casting a warm glow across the entire room. And everyone gathers there. My parents talk, I sometimes read my Kindle, the peewees play, and my sister draws or plays her guitar, in which case I am often urged to sing along. I comply without much struggle.