I awoke to deep, distant rumbles and a sky much too dark for being somewhere between 6:00 and 6:30 at the end of July. I lay in bed listening to the rumbles get a little deeper and a little less distant, considering the apparently short window I had to go outside to pee in the bushes (a daily occurrence without running water or an indoor toilet) and take my raincoat out of the car before it started pouring rain. The first fat drops of rain and the small flash of lightning were my cue. I completed the aforementioned tasks and put some water on for tea.
The sky grew even darker and the rain quickened with the frequency of the thunder and lightning. By the time the water boiled, I could not discern the level of water in my cup as I poured. However, I stubbornly chose not to light the propane lamps because it was daytime–when they are presumably unnecessary.
The fog that had crept up the meadow from the bay the night before thickened, preventing me from even seeing the tree line around the meadow. The lightning flashed pink-purple. the rain poured buckets–literally, as I filled over two buckets with rainwater for dishes towards the end of the storm.
But, in the length of time it took for me to consume a bowl of cereal and a large cup of tea, the thunder had returned to being distant rumbles and the lightning flashed briefly without meaning. Within an hour, conversations about “that storm this morning!” ensued and by late afternoon, not a shred of evidence of its power existed on the landscape but for a few puddley ruts and an overflowed rainwater bucket.