It's been dark for a few hours, and the forecast is for heavy rains and maybe thunderstorms around midnight. The south-facing lanai will be a mess, because this southwest wind, or Kona weather, blows every drop of water that falls from the sky onto the tiles.
But it's kind of exciting. If I can stay awake to see the lighting, the huge torrent of rain drops looks otherworldly, almost like mercury swords slicing through the blackness. I've seen it before.
The geckos have gone into hiding, and the feral cats who have been romancing the past two nights are silent. The queen will not be auditioning the toms tonight. Something's coming and they don't need TV news reports to know that.
Lying on my bed, I listen to the wind. It sighs, it cries, it gusts in booms and slaps against the cinder block building, like unmeasured prelude. The storm and it's overture have not yet arrived.
I close my eyes.
And when I open them the sun is bright, and the easy tradewinds have returned. Morning song is soft and all blue ocean and sky. The blue of clean and washed and new.
No hint of last night's deluge and I have no memory of it.
The lanai is underwater, though, so fetch the mop.
