To the sun-bleached grey, upon the industrial hour, came the lazy thunder. Feet dragged. Hard soles clomped. Faces were as grim as the obsidian sky. Soon the rumbles below were met by rumbles above and the first bolt cleaved the heavens. The soaking came not drop by drop, yet as a New Year’s plunge.
I had learned to read the city storms, to hear the language that they speak, to act as their interpreter.
A storm in the city brought electric skies and rain that sung upon the rooftops, that drummed on every window.
Cocooned within a strong black atmosphere, the clouds promising to bring the blacktop streets deepest shine, the city and storm become one entity, one work of art together.
The city storm blew the cobwebs out and let the silver streets a rain-washed sheen.
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