We had a dandy thunderstorm yesterday, about 6:30 p.m. I'd noticed a sudden early darkening outside, and soon afterwards, as rumbles and mutterings approached from the west, felt cooler air coming in through the kitchen window's screen—damp air that carried the unmistakable scent of earth and leaves and grass…and rain.
When I heard the first thrum of oversized drops on the leaves of the sycamores which shelter the kitchen side of the cottage, I stopped my supper preparations and went into the great room. There I grabbed a chair from the dinning table, opened the front door which leads to the side deck and has a good view of the river a few yards beyond, and placed the chair in the opened doorway—a front-row seat on the action.
And action I got! One of those violent clash-of-the-gods summer storms my Uncle Raymond used to call a "frog choker," where the sky goes black, thunder cracks and booms deafeningly, the earth trembles, lightening emblazons the sky, and the heavens seem to have their underbelly ripped open as torrents gush from above in tropical fury. At times the nearby island was invisible, lost behind sheets of rain, which pelted though the trees in a steady roar. Wonderfully awesome!
After perhaps three-quarters of an hour the storm moved on. We needed that rain, having endured nearly three weeks of baking heat—though its relief was probably rather localized since the river, so far as I can tell, didn't rise more than an inch. Still, it made for good sleeping, plus I won't have to water the flowers today.
There's also a slight possibility of another shower this morning. I hope, since we're predicted to be heading back to days in the 90˚s for the foreseeable future. I'd like at least a few more hours of cooler weather. And I may get my wish because it's been overcast since daylight. Yet a few minutes ago a goldfinch, as gleaming yellow as any portending sun, lit briefly on a stem near the deck. If Mr. Goldfinch had his way, I suspect summer and its accompanying heat would last forever.