The front door open, stereo on, the first trace of a new moon — there, and then not there, then back again as the clouds moved — just a trace as thin as a question mark, and then finally the wind. After three straight weeks without it, you know what I mean.

The lightning started, which was good, and what it seemed to be promising was good: bolts of it, flashes, quick rivers for an instant over our heads, over the valley, and on toward the mountains; you know what it’s like. Like someone with a face so beautiful you have to concentrate to listen.

Like when you’re hungry: warm bread. Like when you’re hungry: how the kitchen smells.

Like after so much sun, a sudden rain.