Summer air, heavy with unshed humidity, stifles the usual evening sounds. Breezes that were making the 31o heat bearable suddenly die and birds disappear into their woodland sanctuaries leaving an ominous silence.
It’s still two hours before sunset but I flick on lamps to fend off the darkness as purple-black clouds obliterate the sun. The dog paces from room to room, returning periodically to stand at the screened patio door, ears alert to something I cannot hear.
Like an approaching freight train a distant rumble rolls its way into the valley. It isn’t a crash and boom kind of storm, but one that builds slowly into a crescendo punctuated with increasing explosions of lightning. The wind races in and flings pellets of rain at the house, spattering them against the screens and instantly filling the eaves trough to overflowing. I hasten to close doors and windows.
Protected behind glass I stand watching until the tantrum wanes, thankful for the rain that puddles in the gardens while dreading the likelihood of more forest fires.
The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.