the approach of summer rain, the scout, the sentry comes first, the breeze, testing the landscape or warning same like a sliding war drum, the beat of the maelstrom to come, there is palpable anticipation, clouds racing to get away, or ahead, I can not tell which, as I do not speak to them, at least not yet, the distant rumble, lurking there, hiding somewhere off in the not so distance, not sure of the direction- but close, even the street lights seem quiet and hunkered down, and me? I have a love for thunderstorms- perhaps more than I should, the first drops are now on this page as I write, soon I will be forced back inside, but- until then, a sharp flash, the first real one of the night, lights up the entire yard, the drops come closer together now, and then the call and response, yes, the low rumble of ready thunder, as if snarling on the next block, the only natural sound now, above the breeze, is the hum of crickets, and then the drops start to ping on the metal railing by my front door, the wind does not come in waves now, a steady-steady beat if one, a second flash and he growl is sooner and longer- more immediate, closer, and the drops are nearly becoming rain, I can hear the heard approaching, marching, now the wind stands up grown – gusting, last warning, many storms are fair in this manner, a flash again, and now the voice shakes the ground under me, what sounds like an approaching car is actually the tract of wind carrying rain down, moving up the street, in full breech, there are barely any breaks in the racing clouds now, one more giant flash followed by a ten second slow rolling rumble, my lesser trees bend and dance, that is all it can do my precious bamboo, for there is no standing up to this, but rather bend and pray to make it through, am I being teased? this wait? the anticipation, will this just flit on by in the other lane?… Well, no there goes that thought, here it comes -the rain, and there I go, to watch from a window now.