The sky darkens and you hear thunder
far in the distance up the river.
Then you see the sheets like flat waterfalls
rushing down the valley faster than trains,
racing, racing against the river.
Just before the garden is pelted,
you smell that mysterious aroma,
which later you learn to call ozone,
that now means excitement, diversion, relief.
The air freshens, a breeze lifts your hair.
The temperature plummets twenty degrees
as the first staccato drops hit the tin roof.
You and your cousins scurry to move
the Monopoly board back to the wall
of Grandmother's big wrap-around porch,
lean against the banister to feel spray
bouncing from gutters and rain spouts,
stick out your tongues to taste icy droplets.
Grandfather moves from the front porch,
where it's blowing in, sits in a rocker,
lights his pipe. Grandmother brings out sweaters,
cuddles you under a quilt in the swing
while you watch the light show, count till the booms.
Someone laughs, and soon you all are laughing
because the storm's tattoo is inside your brains,
laughing because your goose bumps aren't gone,
laughing because there's no reason not to.
