Last night there was a tropical summer storm out our way. It must have been about three o’clock in the morning because we were all sound asleep when the first crash of thunder bounced us out of our beds and sent us racing to close the open windows. We knew what was coming.
The wind struck with gale strength, out of nowhere, and when the lightning flashed its arc-white light we could see the eucalyptus trees across the way bowing and sweeping light gigantic protean dancers in some elephantine ballet. The rain wasn’t far behind the wind. It didn’t begin with a gentle pitter-patter, either, but with great, wet splashes that beat it, baffled fury against the battened windows—a staccato tick tack toe in counterpoint to the rolling, growling thunder.
It was a spectacular storm, and in twenty minutes or so it was over. We returned to sleep knowing that the best was yet to come.
The best in the Mexican highlands, the very best of all, is to awaken early on a summer morning after just such a nocturnal storm as this, to get up with the sun, pull on your slippers and a robe and get out into the dripping, chastened garden. What a world!
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