Full disclosure: reading florid Victorian ethnography* atm. This may get rhapsodic.
At first it was lightning flashes and rare rumbles of thunder. The main part of the storm was east of us and our outlook to the east is not that great, so I was only seeing the sky reflections. The lightning strikes didn't come in ones but in half dozens, flickering like some crazy ball of celestial paparazzi. A few flashes bright enough to dazzle. Belated thunder tells me it's mostly a good ten miles away as the crow flies ( I hear small birds twittering sleepily. Perhaps the storm has kept them awake.)
Then the rain, a first few large deliberate drops - a steady incursion into the open doorway - battering the glass in ceaseless barrage. The garden path is quickly an inch deep in water. The street outside looks like a film noir set, streetlight on rain, white buildings and the black pavement with grey clouds above from the city's ambient light.
And the smell, of wet asphalt and concrete and creosote.
Abruptly, several ground strikes of lightning away to the south-east, followed by protracted and complicated thunder. As it rolls by, the rain renews its enthusiasm - but has already spent much of its substance.
The rapid flashes continue, further off now. Like a sleepy child (or middle-aged lady) out in Vegas where the glitter and twinkle keeps pounding on endlessly, my tiredness has overtaken me, I can't watch any more, my eyes won't stay open. Goodnight.
*Zuni Breadstuff by Cushing. Can't find much about this online so I'll post a review when I'm finished reading it.
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