A good summer storm
Without undue anger
Yet force enough to drive the rain
Should shake the branches
But not tear apart,
Not rip from the limbs their clothing
Scattering leaves as
If raping the trees.
OK. That got weird really fast. I sat down to write an excuse for eating ice cream - without once bit of guilt on top - at ten o'clock in the evening. And then suddenly I'm sexualizing a storm.
That might not be a legitimate term; all the better since no one should sit down to write about ice cream and end up here.
Nice, easy storm. Thunder, yes. Lightning, plentiful. Wind? Perfect: musical without moaning.
Listening, enjoying, cooling off in the mellow little storm - yes, it was just strong enough to be called a storm - I was reminded of rainy nights on family vacation.
Chased from the dark beach by the wind and rain, we sat around the table and played Gin Rummy [house rules], Hearts or Stratego (before Risk was invented, this is what brothers and sisters played when they wanted to alienate themselves from one another).
Even if one of our number didn't actively participate in the game [ahem! Dad!] they didn't isolate themselves in a quieter corner, but read a book somewhere nearby. Since it was vacation, we rarely had a bedtime, but usually had ice cream or popcorn.
When this nice not-quite-a-grown-up storm chased me from my porch seat, I realized I needed ice cream. Really. The best way to experience a good thunder shower is with a bowl of vanilla ice cream, regardless of what time of day it is. Consider it a moment of vacation.
Just don't try to write any free-verse poetry about it.