My phone blew up with a series of messages: Tornado Watch, Thunderstorm Warning, Flash Flood Warning. I looked up from my spot on the couch to watch it all.
The rain came down, though not it sheets. Despite the warning this was a more traditional rain, fat globules that splashed in the puddles turning to ponds outside my door. I got up and paused at my glass sliding doors -- movement catching my eye in the creek that was already full with snow melt from just a week ago (was it only a week ago we were out for snow).
In the flooding creek was a branch, bobbing up and down as it was pushed onwards by the current. I watched it, because it reminded me of old cartoons where the protagonist would avoid being seen in the water by using hollowed reeds sticking above the surface. I lost sight of it briefly and squinted out through the trees to catch a glimpse again.
I can't say for certain why I stopped to watch it or why it amused me. There was some part of me -- ancient lizard-brain perhaps -- that wanted to go out into the storm and follow it down the creek. I grinned as I caught sight of it between a gap in the trees. There was the little branch: bob, bob, bobbing along before vanishing out of sight completely as it was swept off to parts unknown.
It's departure marked the return of my more rational side. There was no need to go chasing sticks down in the rain. By this point the earth itself was half water -- squishy and squelchy underfoot. I knew because I'd made several attempts to take my dog out to potty and had yet to get much result. Even he didn't want to go out in this mess.
I turned away from the window, content to listen to the rain instead.