Rain pounds like an over-enthusiastic drummer
On a thin roof, on muddy paths, on puddles already formed.
Thunder rumbles and lightning arcs across the sky
As half-lit drops race by outside the window.

The room is too full, too warm, too loud;
And yet someone yells to wait out the storm.
But no. Why listen, why stay there?
No one can count all the crowd.

Slip out the door while no one's looking,
And pause on the sheltered porch.
Fierce wind raises an army of hairs
On young arms laid bare by a t-shirt

Across the field, more water than earth,
Every step raises a splash.
Dim surroundings blur together
With the speed of this flight.

Cross from meadow to the forested hill,
Up the path studded with gnarly roots and slick granite.
Unfaltering feet skim over the ground—
No patience for thoughts or physics.

Stop in a clearing at the top.
See lightning framed by tree branches,
Breathe in the thunder and feel its echoes,
Stick out a tongue and taste heaven's gift.

Throw open the creaky screen door.
Inside, but with adrenaline yet to fade.
The door slams, the dull thud of damp wood,
And that is the only trace of civilized sound.