A Craving

I want a summer storm.

I want masses of clouds in shades of blue and gray, so dark they look like ink spilled across the sky. I want chaotic forks of light to rip across the darkness, startling in their contrast and brilliance. I want the air heavy and hot, full of anticipation. I want thunder that you feel before you hear. And then--

I want rain. I want a deluge, the sky simply pouring its collected wealth down into the waiting earth. I want rain so heavy and complete that you are soaked through to the skin by merely stepping off of the porch. I want to run in mad circles, laughing and slipping on the grass, chilled in spite of the warmth still radiating from the ground. And then--

I want to go inside and peel off my heavy, sodden clothes with shaking hands and slip into something warm and soft and far too big. I want to sit in a window seat in a creamy yellow room with dark wood furniture, listening to the rain playing with the quaking aspens directly outside. I want to breathe deeply and let the smell become a part of me. I want to watch the rain fall and hit and bounce up again, the earth too filled to accept it. I want to think about nothing important, and tell myself stories there by the window by the rain.