The rains during summer here tend to come rarely, but when they stir up, they hit hard. There's a dust that rises first, right as the rain starts to fall, but it quickly gets spattered back down on the ground. The ground, hard as it gets in the sun's baking heat, rejects the first drops for only a short few seconds before it starts to suck in all it can get, heavily.
The wind whips up, and the heavy drops can sting. In minutes, the rain goes from being shower-warm, to cooler-than-a-pool. It's almost as though full buckets are being magicked into the sky and being dumped every second.
Everything bows to the storm. Lightning is bright, sharp, direct. Mist dances over tree tops. Almost always, there's a break in the clouds somewhere, so sun beams penetrate through the wind-whipped waterfall, adding its own twist on the spectrum of colors.
The storms are too short, and easily timed. Sometimes, the rains don't reach where we live, at the foot of a mountain, but the humidity of it does, and seems heavy enough that the plants still drink it in.
Should the storms come in the day, and die down with a few hours of light left, everything has a surreal clearness to it. A deeper light? It's hard to describe, but the sun seems more golden, the dirt more red, and the greenery almost appears to produce its own glow. Everything picks itself back up.
It's a nice smell, the after-rain scent. Refreshing, invigorating, energizing. I love it. It's so potent, and the clean air around here only adds to it more. It just feels... Alive.
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Clevara Steelhoof
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