“It may rain,” the weather man announced, “but it may be sunny.”
I’m not the only one maintaining a curious distance from commitment.
I’m told the weather in Lancaster is unpredictable or predictably rainy with unpredictable patches of sunlight. Before moving here I attempted to track the weather to get a sense of what to pack and what to leave behind. Year round the forecast was set to grey. I thought it was a glitch.
When I arrived I was told no, it was not a glitch; the skies are often cloudy to accommodate the moderate doses of rain scattered across the region.
“Don’t expect to see much of the sun,” one cab driver warned.
“If you get two sunny days in a row, that’s summer; don’t waste it” someone suggested.
These past two weeks the days have been delightfully sunny and crispy, hot. On cool evenings breezes skip through the window and race through the house like naughty neighbors. On hot evenings the air is dormant: a dismal houseguest who has overstayed its welcome.
This morning the rumbling started far away growing louder and closer by the second. I rushed to the window. You can’t see thunder. It was my first time hearing thunder since I arrived in the UK and I expected to see a low -flying plane trailing across the sky.
Instead, I saw thunder.
Clouds fat with rain, air thick with promise; it was surely thunder.
A few minutes later sensuous baritones again rippled through the air; how I love a good storm.