Lightning, then thunder, then rain, then snow
Here on the eastern edge of the Great Plains our DNA is attuned to the skies.
From Ohio to Wyoming, from Minnesota to Texas, we are a distinct race, well attuned to the flashes in the sky.
With lightning comes the thunder. It won’t hurt you. Its far away, deep bass may even lull you to sleep.
Thunder doesn’t scare us. The lightning makes us wary. Our hindbrain urges us to flee, to take cover, to find shelter from the power and the light.
It’s a key survival trait on the Great Plains.
Those graceful white prairie schooner clouds can turn in a blink into massive grey men of war, ready to cannonade the earth with bolt after bolt.
A line of thunderheads is dramatic when viewed from a distance with a stout porch roof over your head.
At nightfall, the march of the storm across the flat horizon seems accompanied by an unheard celestial symphony. The winds ebb, flow and swirl to the unheard melody. The birds mute their song. The squirrels cease their chatter.
All awaits.
The wind shifts. The fat drops fall, a percussion session on the roof. The lightning illuminates the stage, and the bass-drum thunder rolls down from the heavens like an Old Testament prophet calling the people back to the faith.
With a voice such as that, who would not want to believe?
Those are the early summer storms, when the land is rich with moisture and heat and energy. It would seem the raw, regenerative power of the Great Plains’ soil is mirrored by the raw power of the sky.
By late summer, the plains are parched. The crops are all but grown. The grass is brittle, and flowers need constant watering.
The brash storms of early summer are a mere memory — a hope from the past. We need water, but none falls.
Then in the evening there is a rumble along the west. The winds fall. The corn seems to perk its ears to better hear.
“There,” points the daughter to the west, “lightning.”
A precursor or a tease?
We sit on the porch as the thunderheads roll in and tower over us.
The rumblings no longer are rumors. They shake the porch. This is serious business, they say with each bass-note salvo.
Then the fat drops fall. Scattered at first, then quick enough to cover the sidewalk with damp. Then comes the wall of finer drops. Pushed hard by wind, they twist small trees in whirls of water, make the downspouts gurgle and the gutters frolic.
The Great Plains’ soil takes a final deep drink. The final storm will finish the crops. Harvest will fill the wagons to their bumpers.
The final storm has passed.
Gentle rain may come in fall. But the plains are buttoning down for the next great change.
The snows are not far off.
Permalink | Comments (3) | Post your comment | Categories: Random musings
Comments
By Riverdale Ghost
September 2, 2008 5:18 PM | Link to this
???? Claim it. There’s shades of the classical there. Check out this guy (the sky absolutely predominates in his paintings; he wrote books, too): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eric_Sloane As for the standing of my evaluations with the Dayton Daily News…. Since I think differently, they wouldn’t trust them if their lives depended on it.By dpage
September 2, 2008 1:57 PM | Link to this
Perhaps I can get you to write my annual evaluation. A raise would be nice. Thank you.By Riverdale Ghost
September 2, 2008 12:38 PM | Link to this
Beautifully written and a joy to read. Thank you!