We all know those cool, weird, little moments, isolated from what you would designate normal reality. They come and go and are forgotten but secretly always yearned for. The thunderstorm brought me such a moment today and I wrote this:
The downpour has its own soundtrack. Short and profound and beautiful, it plays for only a twentieth an hour. From above, from the lying fluff, it flies down then runs away From a Basement on the Hill. Generally, it cannot escape its musical companion, hope is fleeting. But the slippery molecules play a lottery. While falling pure and running dirty they naively continue an ironic search for vaporization, for return to the heavens, for lightning. Gravity is selfish, and the enemy of all things atomic pulls them down away from their Highness, away from chance of an electric blessing. The same blessing that can outrun their sound. That silent, Godly blessing; here and gone in an omnipresent flash. Quantum particles cry out in thunderous unison for its return. The raindrops only live to die spectacularly.
16th Street 
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