May 12, 2012

This is like a rerun of Thursday night, only more explosive!  The thunder last night sounded like I imagine artillery shells might sound, sudden, hugely loud, the sound battering the ground, following the charged air.  When it was right overhead, all you could do was wait for it to move over and let in some quiet, but it did not seem inclined to do that.  At the moment, we are in an empty space, a break in the action, storms south of us and storms north of us, and nothing over us for a few minutes, but more storm coming.  I'm amazed the mockingbird has found heart to sing, but it is out there a symphony in one throat, singing in the brief respite from the rain.  A very brief respite . . . and now the thunder has changed to the dwarf bowling thunder, where the ball rolls down the alley forever and finally falls off the lane.  At least it is not quite so nerve wracking as the artillery thunder.

The sky has that green tinge that strong storms bring, but this storm is pecularly windless, except for movement by the force of the rain, there seems to be no wind, and no sunlight, just a slow fading of dark that arrested at the nearly light stage, clouds still thick, and vibrating with sound.  There have been no cars and no people out, everyone hunkering down and waiting the end of the rain.

All night thunder
slipped though the split air
and widened the gap
shoving through the shoulders
of cloud seen only by accident
of an instant of light

All night the ear
cringed and the body
wakened over and over
to the force of sound
beating at the door
the roof and every window

All night rain
made its own thunder
falling through turbulence
gathering speed until it
could go no faster
then striking

All night everything
struck and resounding
with the violence
making its own cry
in the lacuna of dawn
the mockingbird sang

The thunder is reduced to grumbling, muttering farther and farther away, the rain reduced as well, just making a soft tattoo on the overturned canoe, dripping off trees, a sprinkle not a cataract.  The mocking bird is out here pretending to be a cardinal just now, and in the background the last of the thunder finally falling silent.  Yet the heart does not believe, nor the ear straining against that silence . . .