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The heavy, humid breath of the dark summer night was an oppressive burden to bear. The horizon teased with low rumblings like old men arguing in a dimly lit pub, while the gentle flashes in the distant sky feigned a promise of the coming relief of a storm.

Gentle tastings of the air gave the hint of electricity upon the palette and the excited chorus of crickets and company fed the anticipation of the longing release rain would bring to the overbearing heat and heaviness. When would it come? The summer storm are known for their elusive qualities. They tease for the joy they receive and our eagerness. They long for our desire as much as we long for the reprieve they alone can bring to creation.

Pitter, patter, as the hint of mist begins to fall upon the parched land. All falls completely silent except for the bass rumblings gaining ground every so steadily. Then in a might rushing wind, that which we have prayed, that for which we need as dear as the air in our lungs the deluge begins. It comes it fitful sheets of ecstasy and it drenches all the eye beholds. Beating down the proud stalks of the field and loaning a slick sheen to the cracked and suffering soil. All of creation rejoices with mystic songs passed down through the ages! The leaves dance for their lovers as the air is light and cool!

Then immediate nothingness. The selfish summer storm steals away from us that which it so freely gave for an instant as it rumbles to satiate other souls. The lumbering oppression returns to blanket everything in a steamy embrace of humidity. There is no love as maddeningly as the manifestation bestowed upon us in the form of the sweet summer storm!

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All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter,
Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost
-Tolkien