Oceans in the Sky

Come down. Long and hard, strands of translucent ribbon. These million drops of life that feel like breathing to me. After a seemingly endless day at work, I walk outside to an ocean from the sky. Rain falling like tiny beads. Glassy bullets that don't kill, but revive. These miracles from up above. These things.
The road is scantily occupied. Little lakes form between curbsides and completely full storm drains, gurgling as if they were drowning, gasping for air. As if we're at a water park, the windshield is constantly bombarded by waves, dipping the car this way and that. I'm soaking wet, but the Cadillac provides momentary shelter. Shivering as drippings from my v-neck collar slither down my stomach, cutting like ice. Tears from Mother Earth have never felt so marvelous.
Sky, so gray and ominous. With little patches of light, here and there. Soft pinks and blues try to break through Storm's hearty fortress. It's a losing battle. Fierce, beautiful lightening, pure and white, split the sky with amazing grace. They appear in jagged patterns, looking like the bluish-purple veins that show through the halfway opaque skin of a young child. Through the flesh they are markings of concentration, as if Mother Earth herself is concentrating. All of this rapid energy, surging, growling into long soundtracks of thunder. The background to a beautiful spring day.
Arriving home has never felt so good. The promise of food and dry clothing enters my mind. But before I may indulge in such things, I feel the need to walk outside. The rain is still steady, flowing down concrete. I stand before my house, staring upwards into the cold abyss. There's a pin-sized white light, slowly pulsing in the distance. I stare at it through the walls of water. The wail of the tornado sirens heats my mind with possibilities. I'm almost certain things won't get that crazy, but who knows? I take one last breath, fresh and clean, before walking back to the house.
Humid mornings never turned into such wonderful wet afternoons.