We’re on the brink of another of those dreaded warm weather thunderstorms.
They come far too frequently these days and usually at night when there is the
strong expectation of quiet. In fact, the rumble of approaching thunder is not
near as bad as the absence of chirping crickets, when every night I have crickets.
It is true that the dull thud of rain overflowing the leaf-filled gutter and dropping
onto the hollow metal body of the air-conditioner is not entirely unpleasant,
it’s just that I was betting on the sound of a cat shifting a bed of pine
straw or the moan of a big rig on the distant interstate. I had counted on something
entirely different tonight, and it was something other than a storm. I had counted
on what I wanted, and expected nothing less. Now, as I sit, discontented with
the growing cacophony of thunder and wind, I hardly know which is more damnable:
the darkening sky or my glowing expectations?