There was no denying the air was electric, you could taste it in your mouth.
Every April was like this – emergency sirens were as commonplace as the sounds of traffic on I-35.
We sat on the porch, sipping on sweaty Mason jars filled with bourbon and lemonade.
The heat was bearable – the tension was not.
We kept the horizon within our sight – in every breath and every moment.
We chatted. We talked about what we’d do with our harvest later in the year.
We talked about flowers we had yet to plant.
We talked about the forecasted temperatures.
We talked to keep from saying the obvious:
The storm was coming.
Moments from now, we’d see lightning crackle the sky – both vertically and horizontally.
Thunder would boom and grumble, and dogs would howl.
Trees would stir from their lazy day of rest, chittering like excited or nervous children.
Soon, the trees would stretch in the air – this way and that, like some crazy balloon man welcoming us to the car dealership.
The rain would come.
First, as a barely noticeable spit, then as a downpour so hard you could hardly see the road from 20 feet.
The lightning would threaten our barn,
The thunder would clap our ears and make them tingle,
And when it was over, the world would smell fresh and new.