There is a thunderstorm here.
The good kind.
The kind that rustles up on a late summer afternoon, dropping warm rain and warm breezes, with rolling cloud thunder that rumbles along the prairie for miles and miles and miles. The kind that makes you go stand on the porch and smell the wet pavement and feel the wind – warm and damp and somehow almost caressing – on your face. The kind that makes the cars on the road make splashy noises, but doesn’t flood anything. No gullywasher, this, just late August rain that the parched earth drinks and that turns everything that’s still alive into green, even if only for 24 hours.