It starts mid-day, first a few drops, then lightning and thunder. No matter how many tmes I've heard that crack before in February, it seems odd. Thunderstorms and winter are not supposed to mix in a northern city, but they do. Today they do.
The sheets come down, erasing the vestiges of snow, though even when night arrives and I'm heading home, a few patches of white remain. Just a few amidst the water and it is water, pools of water. Cars carefully drive through the larger depths, sending waves which ripple to the sidewalk, slide over the curb, and wash the concrete.
It a wet city, a soaked city. At one intersection, a five or six feet wide pool hugs the edge of street. I stop and head down the block to find a place where I can jump across without drenching a shoe in fifty degree water. Still it's wondrous--the slickness, the reflections of light from businesses. Everything glows.
Especially when downtown stands tall with its skyscrapers. The bustle of work has left, but a few people scurry. A few leasurely walk. I spy the tallest of the scrapers, the iconic Sears Tower. Halfway up, the clouds obscure, shrouding the building. Yet, further up there is a brightness, a halo among the clouds, as lights pour into night, unveiling the two rooftop antennae.
There is something to nature, even our nature, something to streams and downpours, something to letting it saturate sight. Sometimes it comes with a crackle and it lights in odd fashions. Today is one of those days. It's a moment, a moment to gather and hold and squeeze and cherish and live.
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