It's been raining here almost everyday for a month, soft rain that mists for a few moments, and then skitters away in the afternoon, crashing thunderstorms that rattle the windows.

One day, the black clouds came racing in from the west, we'd been seeing them build all day, and knew another one was coming.  Mountains were growing in the sky, huge, black and glowering.  The air was heavy and still, the only birds we could hear were the crows as they cawed in their heavy, slow glides from oak tree to maple tree and across the street again.

The kids in the street were all talking about it, "The storm's coming, the storm's coming!"  Some were fearful, afraid of the lightning that might come, others, especially the boys, were scornful of such fear, and proclaimed that "It's just noise, and jeeze, you won't melt!!"  I laughed to myself, listening from the window...

Without warning, the first few drops fell, a kind of light pattering noise sweeping down the street, like fingers tapping on a table.  With a sudden whoosh, the sky opened up, and the "real rain" started to fall, silver sheets that streamed from the sky as the children ran to their doorways.

One (mine!) stops, his shoes long ago taken off and left on his front porch, and runs to the nearest new puddle and stomps as hard as he can!   Splash! Rivulets of rain running down through hair plastered to his head, and waves of water jumping from his feet to his knees!  I call to him, and with one last Stomp! he runs to me, laughing, his t-shirt wet through, his eyes sparkling, shouting, "I'm coming, don't worry, I won't melt!"

The lightning follows almost immediately, and we count, 1-Mississippi, 2-Mississippi, 3-Mississippi, and listen for the thunder, to track the path of the storm.  Is it closer, is it farther?  The "Mississippi's" get longer, and we realize with a twinge of regret, that the storm is passing.  A last couple of flashes light up the sky, thunder booms distantly, and then fades.

Gently now, the rain whispers to us, wrapping itself around the house, decorating the puddles with glistening silver swirls and rings.  Rivers are created in the backyard, the grass and trees gleam with brand-new green and silver light.  A breeze wanders in through the windows, cool, smelling sweet and fresh.

The sparrows chirp, questioningly at first, hesitating, wondering, "Is it done, is it over, has it passed us by?"  A black squirrel bounds down from the top of the walnut tree, and scampers across the grass, dancing between the last few raindrops, and yes, it is done.