Heed the thunder and listen to it sing, Wild Bill Hickok.
You should hear the thunder. Our house is silent otherwise as she reads and I type and now the lights flicker and the rain pounds hard against our roof. Our old cat cowers beneath my chair.
I thought about building another pot of coffee but I'm just too lazy to move, afraid I'll miss the show with the business of the measure and pour.
I like thunderstorms. There is something primaeval about storms that make me want to curl under a blanket and listen as the rain lulls me into sleep. Yet I settle comfortably in my chair satisfied with book and hot drink.
The winds have increased and small limbs and pine cones fall and smack the roof followed by the deep boom of another clap and the grayish green lightning flashes and brightens our world. The cat whimpers.
Now if you'll excuse me I believe I shall pull up my foot stool and read to nature's music.