the air is electric.

the sky is strangely bright for the late hour; not inky black but a rich, deep midnight blue, scored with lighter clouds. lightning flashes, flickers and rages somewhere so far overhead it might as well not be real, and no thunder follows. it feels like a dream, a night-vision in some story. each flash is blinding, but it excites you like you're 5 again and the storm brings dark and formless beasts that stalk just beyond the black.

the wind rustles dried-out trees, pushes leaves and garbage over the concrete below. it leaks in the open window like liquid, cool and not unpleasant after day's raging heat. the blinds, slightly raised, wobble and rub on the wall, squeaking like a snoring animal. the always-present sounds of a lumber mill rumbles somewhere far away.

more flashes light the sky like daytime, followed finally by a rumble of thunder, finally roused like a lazy dog from its nighttime slumber. wind picks up, and night-sounds follow, rustling and banging as boughs creak and grind on one another, leaves flutter and dance.

the air is electric. it will rain soon. it will always rain soon.