The rain commits a violent assault. She looks at the flooded landscape, and imagines insects struggling for short moments before death. She watches humans scurry, as though the torrent might cause their demise. She hears the sound of squealing brakes on the adjacent highway. She watches shallow-rooted trees sway precariously in the wind.
More rain in twelve hours than is typical for the entire month, they say.
On the other side of the mountains, the worst wildfires in the state’s history rage, unchecked.
She sits under the awning of the porch, and feels peaceful for a moment. In the sky, the juxtaposition of black and white seems a perfect analogy for everything she has ever known.
As quickly as she has had time to marvel, the winds blow the summer storm through. Robin’s egg blue skies wink through the cumulus, as the sun asserts its presence once again. Bright patches wave their greeting.
It is all over in minutes. She looks out at the lawn and imagines the feast that awaits the birds.
Life is pretty fucking gorgeous, she thinks, then feels as though she is being trite.
She loves the sun because it makes her miss the rain; in opposition of the masses. She loves the rains because of the beauty as they pass.
She is not a night owl, nor a morning lark. She just loves the difference.