I'm standing outside when it hits.
Its not like I don't see it coming. All the signs are there – the blackening sky, the increasingly insistent wind, the head-under-water humidity, the sky that's starting to speak. But I just watch. Passive. Waiting.
I shiver as the first drops find me. I know what to expect now – this thing is not going to break up – but still I'm rooted to this spot.
The distant rumblings are closer and distinct and my fibers fixate on the space between heat and vibration. Lightning and thunder. The storm moves closer.
The fat, pregnant drops multiply in mid-air, birthing small wet clones – now covering all the dry spots on the driveway, now dotting and drenching my extremities, limbs, core. The sky is crying into my hair and the tears catch in my lashes, soaking me deeply. I am inundated, not sipping but guzzling the sadness that feeds me in ways the sunny days can't.
The wind really whips now, but I'm committed to this spot. The sheering forces do what they want to me, trying to break me in half, but I know their strength. I've seen storms like this before and I've never lost a limb.
Then across an ocean of minutes or maybe years –what is time?—the storm slackens and stops. But there's nitrogen in my lungs and I'm starting to feel the sun and my sap is coursing in an inner river.
I've weathered another storm – I'm still here. And my leaves feel a shade greener.
Bad mood? Maybe. Or perhaps just an inevitability – terrible in its own way, but beautiful, too.