It's raining again, lightning writing in quick, angry strokes across a midnight blue sky. The air hums with the intensity of 10 million 100-watt light bulbs, tossing streaks of silver and brilliant white across and over, down and around. God's taking liberties with such an infinite canvas, mixing in a little ochre, a splash of blue, an odd neon green.

But this violence must eventually spend itself and still -- even Zeus tires of throwing lightning bolts from storm-tossed skies. And in the midst of the stillness, when the lightning eases and, like a gentleman, the thunder steps to the background, then the rain gentles. It's remarkably peaceful then, mesmerizing, calming. I think Carl Sandburg said it best when he wrote about "the long, multitudinous rain." There's something sensuous about his choice of words -- something that absolutely captures the sense of this time, now. The rhythmic tapping of raindrops on the early summer leaves burns into my memory, reawakening something long dormant from childhood.

There's something cleansing about a summer rain -- especially a langorous, monotonous one. Tomorrow, the world will smell different, look greener, offer refreshment. It's already on its way. We'll wake up to new life, literally. Somewhere, a flower will stand a little taller, a leaf will glow with a phosphorescent vigor. Tadpoles will hatch and wiggle gleefully, beginning the journey of losing a tail and gaining legs in return, metamorphosing in the puddles left behind. Joyous sparrows will bathe alongside, splashing away the dirt of summer already gathering on their wings.

Visually, a gentle summer rain at night is simply stunning. Each drip opens the mind's eye to the quivering of a leaf that gives, then, underneath the infintessimal weight of a single droplet of water. Wisps of nearly transparent steam rise from the overheated asphalt. A light breeze lifts a petal here and there, scattering rain dust in its wake.

A fly buzzes my head, attracted by the alien light of my lamp. Even its distinctive sound, natural though it is, seems misplaced amid the patter of raindrops.

I think perhaps the rain has set in for the night, or for a while anyway. It's a welcome respite from early summer heat, although my neighbor, already frustrated in her quest for pool time, would surely disagree.

The faintest of breezes carries a clean, crisp, scent through my bedroom window, and I'm instantly back in some simpler time -- when a summer rain brought with it tranquility, and a langorous sense of well-being.