IT HAD BEEN A LONG DAY. Not a bad one, but certainly a long one. I was thinking yearningly of a bath, some relaxation time, and off to bed. But then something stirred me. ...
It wasn't a sound, but a silent prodding within. Led me out onto the porch, to my lovely second-floor deck. Twilight had folded itself into night, and all I could see was a vague outline of clouds. I have tended to feel disappointed that my wonderful new condo had no view of the sunset. It just seemed a shame. But tonight chided me and put my complaints to shame. As I gazed out, not knowing why I was there in the dark (although the air was pleasant and somehow comforting), a dazzling show began—for me. A giant, magnificent cloud, one for painters and not for words, became the perfect backdrop for a lightning storm, Off in the distance, the storm broke forth with enthusiasm.
And yet there was no sound to be heard, except my gasps of delight, as the great flashes of light danced with a randomness that surprised, yet with a sort of choreographed grace. And grace it surely was, I discovered as I lingered there. Each strobelike effect revealed the textures of that huge cloud, the inner flourishes of a painter's handiwork, varied shades of white and black and gray, which were anything but colorless or dull. I watched, transfixed. Each flash shot across the horizon more surprising and satisfying than the last.
