The thunderstorm is heralded by the deepening clouds. For the most part it is a full summer’s day, hot and bright. But the mountain ridge is shadowed in deep cloud. Early night, I think. Then lightning flashes in a brief but brilliant overture, and the storm begins. Plump raindrops pour down, surprisingly cold amid the warm wind.
The storm continues into the night. The veranda is my balcony seat, and I’m awed by the show. The mountain range is silhouetted with each burst of lightening. Majestic black peaks against a backdrop of white-gold.
It’s a glorious display, and already I am planning my review in prose.
Symphonic sky fire
Purple thunder, early night
Summer’s wind, winter’s rain
Tingling thrill- danger, delight
Sometime later, I stand on a mountain swathed in mist. At first I see nothing but hazy white. Then, all at once, silver sparks dance in front of me. A lake has caught the light of the sun. In my rapture, I nearly forget that I have a camera. But by the time I pull it out the holy moment passes. I catch only the fading glory. At least I have its memory saved, in part, through lyrics.
The faint glistening
Of a misty mountain lake
Echoes heaven’s gate
To my frustration, neither of these pieces can give full tribute to those experiences. I can’t always capture what I see and feel, whether in writing, art, or photograph.
Even so, I still try. I want to take experiences and share them. I want to praise my Creator through a creation of my own. I want to keep memories alive.