Angry wipers struck each tear-blue lens beneath a darkening rainbow-void. The city streets by noon languished as ashen grey. The trickle of cars, nose to tail, lurched on only to stop. Eyes beneath umbrella’s brim found no sight other than concrete’s wave. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. Drenching cold set in. Then for the listening ear, howling wind did begin to sing. It was no happy choir, no opera singer upon gay stage, yet the serenade of sirens.
To the sun-bleached grey, upon the industrial hour, came the lazy thunder. Feet dragged. Hard soles clomped. Faces were as grim as the obsidian sky. Soon the rumbles below were met by rumbles above and the first bolt cleaved the heavens. The soaking came not drop by drop, yet as a New Year’s plunge.
I had learned to read the city storms, to hear the language that they speak, to act as their interpreter.
A storm in the city brought electric skies and rain that sung upon the rooftops, that drummed on every window.
Cocooned within a strong black atmosphere, the clouds promising to bring the blacktop streets deepest shine, the city and storm become one entity, one work of art together.
The city storm blew the cobwebs out and let the silver streets a rain-washed sheen.
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