Boom! Rrrrrruuuuuuumble. I open my eyes for a moment in the dark, roll over, adjust the pillows.
Just on the edge of sleep, there it is again. Boom! Rrrrrrrruuuuuumble. I open one eye, take a look at the clock.
Two a.m. The weather forecast was right on target.
Slumber returned swiftly; thunderstorm or not, I couldn't tell you. When my brain calculates two-and-a-half hours of sleep before the alarm, it is pretty good about returning to dreamland. I'll have to rely on the evidence in the morning to determine the true accuracy of the meteorologist's prediction.
Padding out to the kitchen, I start my coffee and empty the dishwasher. Remembering the evening's interruption, I look out onto the back patio. The concrete is still damp. The flowers and plants are intact, leading me to think we didn't get any hail.
I write until my coffee is done, and then take my steaming cup through the front door. A few puddles remain, edges shining in the streetlight. Our cars are plastered with yellow from the pollinating oaks, stuck like dull, powdery glitter on a child's art project.
The air is cool, and my bare feet are cold against the concrete. Breathing deeply in this freshly washed morning, I return to my desk and finish this piece.