Evening Thunder

Evenings near the solstice we can almost feel the earth slowing. A sense of culmination sweetens the air.

Near sunset we hear thunder soft in the distance, and we sit in the rockers on the back porch to wait for rain.

There is a scene from the movie "Witness," filmed in Pennsylvania Amish country, where Harrison Ford watches a thunderstorm come. It was not scripted, merely captured near the end of the day's filming, and seen by the director for its beauty and its mood. It is one of our favorite scenes, wordless, without orchestration, sensual and entirely natural.

The thunder increases, but we know by the direction that the heart of the storm will pass to the north. We wait without fear. The wind rises. The woods moves and sighs. The rain begins.

It is everything we'd hoped for, slanting in from the southwest, falling from a great height in legs across the field. The rain walks.

It turns the air silver and hides the hills. The barrell fills in seconds, water spilling on stones. We, too, overflow with a sense of well-being. Even Old Bob watches with his head on his paws, safe in his box.

At the summer solstice, we know possibility. Anticipation is a form of hope. We know ourselves to be one summer closer to our last. We look forward to the next storm.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved