
(Continued from July 18)
The minutes pass. The darkness stretches toward you, reaching, growing, shot through with periodic bolts of lightning—and now, out of the storm’s black canvas, the grim contours of an arcus cloud begin to emerge. This is the leading edge of the storm: a shelf-like, turbulent formation—visually imposing and at times mind-boggling—which forms at the boundary between cold surface winds rushing outward, and warm, moist air higher up racing in to feed the storm. The squall line is an amazing machine, a complex process balancing order and chaos. To you, though, more than anything, it is a grand-scale juggernaut bearing down on you with unsettling rapidity.
For a minute or two, as the shelf cloud advances overhead like a vast flying saucer, there is silence, a stillness you can feel, as if the very atmosphere is holding its breath.
And then it comes:
the wind…
building suddenly and swiftly…gusting…intensifying into a full-fledged blast, kicking up dust, tearing leaves and even entire branches off the nearby trees.
The first drops of rain pelt you—large drops, just a few to start with, but looking across the field, you can see a gray curtain charging toward you like a battle host. It is upon you in seconds, plunging you into a deluge. Just like that, the storm is at hand, arriving in full, magnificent fury—and you yourself are transformed from a mere spectator into a participant. The rain lashes past you in a blinding confusion of wind-driven torrent and white spray. Lightning sizzles to the earth in every direction. Thunder explodes overhead. Nature is playing one of her finest, most extravagant symphonies, a clamorous and exuberant orchestration of light and sound, wind and water.
But inevitably, the symphony begins to fade. The torrent diminishes into a downpour, and the downpour into a light rain, and by and by, the rain tapers into a sprinkle and then into nothing. The incessant cannonade of the thunder diminishes into an echoing roar, and then a fading rumble. The storm has passed. To the east, a rainbow hangs in the air, set against glowering clouds filigreed with lightning. To the west, the late afternoon sun peers through a clearing sky.
You breathe deeply. The air smells fresh… feels fresh…and you yourself feel rejuvenated. The drama of the storm leaves grace in its wake, a landscape dripping with life-giving water and bathed in golden light.
Another Michigan thunderstorm has come and gone. But no storm is the same. Each has its own personality, and its visitation brings a unique drama to our Michigan landscape—and to our lives, if, like Huck Finn, we’ll relax, open our senses, and enjoy the show.