Monsoon has sprung, and our afternoons have become dark and spongy, perfect for curling up with a good book or an Andrew. If we were of the religious variety and were living when the Earth was still flat, I am certian we would be checking the skies for Thor and his hammer, balls of fire, and Zeus laughing, using his lightning bolts like scissors.
At work the other day, hammering started in the form of quarter-sized rain drops. The five-lane road in front of our office was a flooded river. My co-workers and I watched as a cardboard box-come-sailboat navigated past. Cars were pulling over, the rain water flowing over their wheel bases. In one underpass, a car drowned in seven feet of water.
Thunder is the loudest I've ever heard. Like in the old movies or plays when behind stage or camera they'd shake giant peices of tin and nearly blast the audience away. Andrew and I resist the urge to cover our heads and duck (maybe an inherent instict left over from the Zeus days?), then grin at each other sheepishly. Secretly we're both looking around the see if the ground has splt into two, the world ripping apart.
Then the rainbows come. Double rainbows, spanning one side of the valley to the next.
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