It is one of the reasons you love your desert so much. It has no room for demure little trembles in its sky nor the constant damp of the drizzly northern climates. When it rains--truly rains--it does so with wild abandon.

You feel it in the air today, the way the wind slowly gathers the clouds together, fashioning them into a thick blanket to cover the sky, wraps itself around the sun until the desert brightness is dimmed for the afternoon.  Then as you tend your plants, the wind licking your hair and coiling itself around your body, you hear it: the thick rumble of thunder.

There will be rain soon, falling hard and fast and all at once from the sky just as it should in the summer; it will calm the city even as it continues to crack and groan and whip the air around street lamps, throw rain down from the sky to soak the earth.  But for now, the thunder teases you, making you hold out your open palm in anticipation, hoping for some fat drops to kiss it.  You sniff the air, searching for that ephemeral smell of clouds breaking, drops hitting dry land.

And when the rain does come, you will watch from your window even as you would rather be out dancing it in--if it weren't for the thunder and its companion lightning, never far behind it.  You will admire the way the rain hits your window, falls against your upturned plants, washes the city free of dust and heat.  You will curl up and fall asleep to the crackling of thunder, the wild patter of rain--and you will relish sneaking outside when the rain has subsided, the land hushed as if under some sort of spell. You will marvel at the puddles and sweet air, the quiet after the hard rain. 

Already it begins. You hear the first flutters of rain hitting the trees.  Another roar of thunder rolls through the clouds.  You head indoors, almost unwilling to leave your perfect perch for an afternoon rain, but another peel of thunder reminds you that it is time to close the windows--which you do, just as the rain being to fall in earnest.

This is your kind of thunderstorm.