Red dirt rivers traveled down the hill towards the stream behind the house
Tall oaks trees are all occupied with crows and sparrows avoiding the steady rain
"This is sleeping weather", said my grandfather as he reclines in his chair admiring the beauty of the storm
Robust streams of lighting illuminates the grey covered skies
A cold chill penetrates the dense humidity built from weeks of no rain
Steam arising from the pavement, as the rain heals the ground punished from the unforgiving South Carolina sun
Deep echoing thunder speaks to everything and everyone in its presence to listen,
"That's God talking and you better listen, my son"