I awake and roll over to see a magnificent, silver lightening bolt directly through the bedroom window. Its lines are so clear and bright and jagged. The immensity of its power is thrilling. I get out of bed and walk outside. More lightning strikes. More clear than I've ever seen. They whip across the sky.
I grab my camera-phone. These are so gorgeous, I'm going to send them to my family.
Ah ha! I catch a bolt of lightning that shoots out across the sky. And another bolt with an intensity heretofore never seen. Spectacular footage. I'm so excited.
The sky to the north is a black-out. In almost thirty years of living in this home, with its view of the valley and the surrounding mountains, I've never seen a sky so dark.
While taking my second round of photos, the rain, slowly at first, pounds the deck, the roof, the earth. I push open all the windows and listen and feel and marvel. A chance to check the lighting bolts in my just-taken videos. They will certainly be the best bolts I've ever captured. But in my just awakened state, without glasses, all the videos are of the deck ground. Instead of pushing the big red button on, I turned it off. When finished filming, I turned the camera on, and dropped the phone to my side.
Breakfast on the covered, middle deck isn't enough. I bring my laptop with me. I mean to write. But I can't. The storm commands my attention. Soon, I am protected in the middle of the black out. The lightning is less than two miles away. I am in the midst of the fury.
The rain stops. The lightning continues. The rain starts up again. Pockets of white and blue are showing up.
I struggle to type. My fingers are so cold it hurts when they move.
Birds begin to fly again. A hummingbird perches on the feeder. Its nemesis charges; it flies away. A pop of lightning in the distance. The sky still rumbles. The treetops still sway.
Now a distant sound of a plane. A discovery that the upper deck is leaking as water plop plop plops on the outdoor ottoman.
I am wrapped in a blanket, a thick hoodie, my fingers stiffen more. But I can't go inside. Not yet. I saw this storm come and I want to see it leave.
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