Most people are not like my mom and me. Most do not take the timeto admire the glory and power of a thunderstorm. How many of us sit and wait,staring into the dirty green sky, hoping to see a flash of lightning light thenight sky for a split second? Or rush outside to feel the cold rain hit our facesand listen to the music of the skies boom and shake the windowpanes? What many donot understand is that thunderstorms should not be feared, butenjoyed.

They begin quietly. An eerie feeling hangs in the air as the skyturns a murky green, and we can smell the moisture in the air mixing with thedirt from the earth. It's as if the earth is mixing something up for dinner, andis calling us to taste it. The ears on cats and dogs perk up, and many of thembecome restless, barking and meowing as they stare into the strange sky. Theyknow it is coming.

The thunder begins before the rain. It is a slow rumbleat first, like something is being moved upstairs. The bangs and booms are farapart. The lightning, if visible at all, is a faint light on the horizon. The airis calm yet tense. It is as if all is well and all is about to go wrong at thesame time.

The first drops begin, and then it is a downpour. The sound ofthe wetness hitting the ground is distinct, muffled. The first cars drive throughthe moisture, and we can almost feel the slick wetness in their sound. We soonhear nothing but the rain beating down on everything around us.

Eventuallythe drops fall into a steady rhythm. It is melodic and calming as we listen tothem hit the windows and roof and hear the angry thunder interspersed between.The thunder is like the percussion of a band giving emphasis to the song, andwhat a song this is. It is easy to drift off to sleep, and we oftendo.

And we wake. We hear the slow rumbling of thunder in the distance, thesame rumbling we heard before the storm. It is as if the storm is starting again,but we know it is over. The rain falls sporadically. The thunder no longer hasinfluence. The melody is no longer steady. It is quiet again, and the few carsdriving by can be heard sloshing through the puddles in the street and streamsforming along the curb. We drift off to sleep again as the last thunder rumblesand the last drops fall, lonely and slow, to the window, to the roof, to theground.

We awaken the next morning. Everything looks different, new even.The flowers are glistening as moisture rolls off their leaves and delicatepetals. The power of a storm, dark and violent, still spares the smallestflowers, bright and delicate.