It rained today. In fact, it’s rained almost nonstop since March. Rain falls daily. Now that it’s tropical storm season, we’re getting daily thunderstorms, most of them at night.
Anytown is painfully muggy. So muggy, all you need to go swimming is to walk outside. I feel like I should be wearing scuba gear instead of sundresses.
However, the mugginess brings the fireflies out in droves. They come out to dance when the sun goes down, and they party all night. I dance with them, sometimes, smiling at the music of cicadas singing.
Tonight we had a doozy of a storm. Thunder rumbled and grumbled overhead for hours. There was lightning flashing in the heart of every cloud. Pyrotechnic party lights for the fireflies.
I drove home tonight, my stereo turned up loud enough that I could feel the music. I drove away from the firefly party, but the lights were still flashing in the clouds overhead. No bolt of lightning touched down, which was good. Those bolts are lovely, but they always mean that something gets hurt, whether it’s a person or a creature or a tree. The bolts that stay up in the clouds don’t hurt anything. They’re just beautiful.
Those elevated lightning bolts turn the clouds all shades of green and yellow and pink. Muted, of course, by the greyness of the cloud—but the colors are still there, pulsing, as if synched to music.
And far below, the little lightning bugs, unperturbed by the crackling storm, dance on.
Lightning above. Lightning below.