I sat outside in grey twilight, looking up into the night sky. Clouds amassed in the south and west, and heat-lightning flickered along the horizon. From across the street, the sounds of a happy gathering echoed. Someone was playing a guitar, and people were singing. The rumble of a Big-Wheel being ridden up and down the street provided a kind of percussion. The usual evening sounds added to the music. Occasionally dogs barked, doors opened and closed, and cars passed by. Night deepened.
The clouds climbed the sky. A half-moon hung just over the maple tree but soon its light was filtered, softened. I watched as fireflies rose, glowing, from the grass and danced in the darkness. One by one, the noises faded. The children were called indoors. The guitar subsided and the singers headed home. Neighborhood traffic ceased its movement. I waited.
In the dark hour after midnight, when everything was stilled, the clouds overtook the moon. Thunder rumbled and the wind picked up. I pressed my feet against the dry ground, feeling the crumbly soil beneath the matted roots of the grass. The earth cried out for rain.
In solidarity, the sky wept cool tears. A few at first, then more - the pattering sound of the drops hitting the leaves above my head whispered through the night. The earth sighed and a sweet smell rose from the grass. The fireflies continued their dance but gathered low under the trees. Rain filtered down through the leaves and struck my skin, my hair; droplets rolled down my face. I breathed deeply and let the night and the storm wash over me.
Silver lightning streaked down the sky and illuminated the mist rising from the valley. The scent of honeysuckle crept through the darkness and mingled with the wild roses that climbed over the fence. Thunder echoed. Across the neighborhood, security lights and windows went dark all at once. In the space of a few seconds, darkness reigned. The storm quickened. Wind gusted. The trees swayed, reaching their limbs into the sky in celebration of the torrent. In their movement I could hear phantom voices praising the rain, praising the thunder, praising the God of creation who first imagined the forests and the mountains and the valleys, who painted the sky with lightning and shattered the air with thunder.
I sat still, understanding the danger of the night and of the world at the mercy of the storm, but unwilling to move. I could not leave that place or fail to join the trees in their song. As the paean rose into the night, faint voices seemed to weave together from all around - the grass, the flowers, the vines, the earth itself - all were blended in a melody as ancient as the universe. Maybe as ancient as God. Who could say when the first hymns of praise were sung, or who - or what - sang them?
The night and the storm swept on. As the rain slowed, the song faded into a whisper. The trees ceased their dance and became still. The ground sighed in relief and haze rose like a multitude of spirits from the grass. The fireflies, circled in golden halos of mist surged upward again, taking back their territory in the damp air. I got to my feet. The evening was passing, and I was tired; time to seek dry clothing and a soft bed. But even though I shut the night outside when I entered my house, the beauty of the darkness, the storm, and the song of the earth followed me all the way into sleep.
