At five O’clock on an autumn afternoon, the dams of heaven burst, and the first drops of rain the dusty streets of Greeley, Colorado have seen in months plummet to the ground. I crawl to the head of my bed and lift open my window, letting the room inhale that wonderful smell like that of a wet rag washing a chalk board. I perch my chin on the edge of the sill, watching the drops bespeckle the sidewalk until their army engulfs its surface, and soon the world is cast into a foreboding shadow only clouds promising heavy rain can provide. On the roof resounds a chorus of clapping rain drops that inspires children to dance gleefully in the street, and somewhere, I imagine two lovers kissing passionately. In the distance, the low rumble of a beast fills the air, a snore: he is merely asleep for now.

As soon as the peace arrived, it is dominated by a second, more sinister force. The rain comes down in sheets now, a hard, cold slap to anything it collides with, and trees huddle to protect themselves from its force while anything with legs runs for cover. In the garage, the cat yowls his discontent, his fur no doubt on end resembling porcupine quills and his pupils as wide as dinner plates. One would think it is his first storm, but from the way my heart is pounding, it is mine also. Lightning illuminates the sky. I am unable to keep from blinking for that one second, but I picture the moment it strikes the earth not unlike the flash before the explosion of a nuclear weapon. A strange impulse enters my mind, and I find myself silently urging the lightning onward. Strike something. I dare you.

The hunger for excitement minds me of my family’s trips to the coast so many years before, when my sister would use our fingers to draw lines in the sane and wait for the waves to pass them.

“Bet you can’t get this!” said my sister as if taunting Poseidon in his sea chariot somewhere beneath the surface. Heaving a great breath and sighing with effort, the ocean extended the tide meeting her challenge so that there was no sign of the line engraved in the sand seconds before. On and on the game went, again and again. How far could we push it before it would go no farther?

On channel nine, the shot of some poor reporter out in the elements is crowded by maps of the sate with counties lit up where there are storm warning. Words of caution spelled out in all red capitals scroll urgently across the bottom of the screen. Some small part of me wants my county to be listed. Despite the damage it could cause—a flooded basement and two very displeased parents in my case—nothing beats the thrill of being in the eye of the storm. Outside, the monster awakens. Thunder and lightning occur simultaneously. The house trembles, clocks and pictures threatening to fall off the walls, as an unseen deity above the clouds rips the fabric of the sky in two as if it were composed of paper. I race to the window and stare out into the world that has been transformed by the weather.

This sensation of awe never goes away. I know soon the winter will pay us a visit, bringing with it the prospect of snow, and as much as high school students try to prove themselves mature by staying in their desks, we all crane our necks to catch a glimpse of the falling powder outside, desperately fighting the basic instinct to run to the window and all press our noses against the cold glass like first-graders to watch the peculiar white dust descending from the sky. It will appear overnight in a soundless blanket that coats the world like frosting, cancelling everyday activities, and with luck, silencing car engines and the endless hum of electricity.

The miracle of weather never fails to pulls humans out of their mundane routines surprising them with something falling from the sky or blowing in the wind occasionally. With a snap of his fingers, he delights us with a celebratory shower. As if holding a finger to his lips for silence, he delivers a snowstorm that tells us all “hush”. We stop, slow down, and are reminded that man does decide how to make the world go round.