Texas has interesting thunderstorms. I love them. The dark clouds roll in and bunch up and do somersaults. A spark of lightening cracks through and the kettle drum beat lets you know...here it comes.
Sometimes, there's a space of time. A breath of emptiness waiting when the lights almost imperceptably dim.
And then the sky opens up and water pours out like a gigantic hose at full throttle, except straight down. If you looked up, you'd drown. And it goes on and on and on and you think that there can't possibly be more water in the sky but there is more, gallons more, overflowing bayous more, swollen streams more, flooding more.
Just as suddenly, it stops. The ground sopping, huge, heavy water droplets dangling on the green leaves, clinging for life. I swear you can see the vegetation grow before your very eyes, lush and full. Steam clouds up the windows. It's hot and wet out there and cool and dry in here.
The thunder starts again. Aggressive, menacing, warning of impending doom. Rain pours forth. I love a Texas storm.
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