I do like storms.

Felt the rain, sand and dust today which had cursed its way across our path, hitting us hard as we ran headlong into it. I was enjoying our longer than usual walk, and because of the wind, which, thankfully, served up that "rains near us smell" the good cold smell. We found ourselves hiding under a patio roof, so as to just to be in a different way from the rest of our boring day and we knew the evening forcast was of wind, rain and thunder. Yes, like many do, I like "storms" the storms of every season, but you have to admit the summer's thunder and lightning almost makes those in pain happy enough to argue with it. I mean, I can remember one very early spring morning with the sun just about to lose itself above the cloud, and of course, because that morning it was no match for the insistant black rolls of angry, grey, swollen scream covered belly pushing thunder and lighting shards all over the place. I'd been falling onto myself that night, and although I found myself staring through wind pushed tears. I lent upon the screen and answered several lightning strikes with what kept me at home for awhile so the neighbours would forget to ask "what was that all about?". My bedroom is white, besides the hardwood floors, everything is white, everything is cold, dark and quiet, besides the wind sweeps that I so long for and reason with by keeping the window open, almost all of the time. The bed sits along side, wall to wall - floor to ceiling windows with long white drapes which I keep drawn. I lay on a large, fat, feather quilt because its light and always feels cool and seems to escape my touch, easly pushed out of the way. The view, as I lay in bed, a downtown, a cityscape with its sparkle and glow, its mirroring off the river. I see this from the 11th floor, and take it as a gift. Its enduring, I mean to sleep is beautiful, but to sleep in this room is a working, an effort, a seeking.