Whenever an electrical storm rolls through Edgemere
a third of the city pauses,
stretches every muscle,
shoves aside the busywork
and does something.
Men square up their shoulders
and swagger a bit more;
women stand closer, brushing accidentally,
or find lower tables to lean on.
They can feel the storm
spilling down the slopes
of the mountains to the west,
feel it advancing as the rain
pebbles the surface of the lake.
They can taste in the freshening breeze
the storm's galvanic power,
feel tiny tongues of white fire
barber-poling
along the long strands
of their euphoric nerves.
This is a time to do great things.
A time to miss meals in the workshops;
for tempestuous trysts or midnight road trips;
the time to fire up epic all-nighters.
Listen! Thunder grumbles: Now is the time;
the time when you can pelt full-tilt along
an eight inch wide board bridging two buildings,
confident in every springing step;
the time when the end of the alley
twists the dice to eleven
whenever your dollars demand it;
the time when both of you realize
at the same moment
that the answer will be yes,
so you can both savor that unasked question
all through the evening.
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