Thunderstorm

When the rumblings start I go outside,

stand on the porch to watch the storm, 

leaving my friends to their studies

On summer afternoons I sit on the garage floor

watching the storm through the open door

and leaving my brothers to their noisy games

The water relieves the tired ground

bringing out hot mid-summer smells

 like damp blacktop,dust, oil, sports equipment,

and blowing into my garage, the scent of rain

An early spring storm smells like new mulch,

rotting flowers, fresh, green.

The wind blows mist into the porch, the scent of rain.

Lightning isn’t really one flash.

It’s a flicker, three or four flashes together,

find the brightest spot in the sky, such colors

lighting up the world, clear as day

we run through the woods, having forgotten flashlights,

picking our way by barest outlines, until the flash,

illuminating the whole group of us, the path, the entire woods.

I never knew lightning really could be bright as day.

A group of girls runs by.

As the thunder cracks, someone screams from the fright,

but I laugh

I laugh, but someone

screams in fright at each flash.

We link arms and encourage her through the woods,

assuring one another that we’ll run safely home.

I’m usually standing alone, staring in rapture at the sky,

but tonight someone joins me on the porch.

We glance at each other, sharing

identical expressions of excitement.

It was my idea first, but soon

my brother would join me in the garage

during the storms.

As the rain picks up he sets off into the storm,

to walk through the wonder of nature.

But I withdraw, staying under the porch,

keeping to the safety of a roof overhead and a sturdy wall at my back.

My brother walks out to the driveway,

standing in the rain and wind,

while I teetered at the edge of the garage,

telling him to get back inside before he’s hit by lightning.