Last night we had a fantastically loud thunder storm sweep through the valley.

I could see it coming when I left work. The sky had grown dark and surly, with black clouds sending veils of silver rain onto the hilltops all around.

By the time I pulled in the driveway at home, the wind was whipping through the dogwood tree, scattering it's white petals across the freshly mowed yard. The cats were peeking out from beneath the porch as I walked up the steps. Their afternoon ritual of spying on the quail in the brush pile out back was thwarted.

I curled up on the overstuffed chair by the windows, and watched as the sky took on an eery glow from within. The kind that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, anticipating the first flash of white lightning from the core.

It wasn't long before my anticipationis were rewarded. The sky lit up, and I counted the heartbeats between the lightning and the thunder. Four beats. One enormous thunder clap, bouncing off one mountain after another.

I could smell the rain before it hit. That earthy, pungent fragrance of too-dry dirt finally being quenched. Of orchards and old leaves being washed clean. Of flowers being shaken on their stems. And I saw the curtain of rain coming from the West, hiding everything behind it in a gauzy haze.

It was an immediate downpour. The metal roof hammered with the onslaught, funneling the water to the corners of the house where it cascaded in gushing waterfalls.

I opened the kitchen window to hear it better. The wind blew rain in through the screen. It felt crisp and cool, as clean as any early summer rain could be. I wanted to bottle that smell, capture the feeling, and keep it going all night long.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rain. Sensed the lightning. Waited for the thunder. It had a life of it's own, with a pulse that pattered on the metal roof long into the evening.