And the green grass grew all around

[cyrano]

Wind hurtling down the narrow canyon of the housing development's main street.
Water being flung from one roof to another, in gouts and streams.
The air more full of rain than air.
The sound of water slamming into the earth, quickly, constantly.
Thunder rolling through in deep bellows and surly rumbles.
Raindrops striking the ground, leaving soaking craters behind.
Humidity building, and finally exploding and releasing.
The hair on my arms raising, raising, with static charge, until the water beats it down again.
Rosemary, battered, releasing her scent in defense.
And in the center of this impersonal brutality, unfocused expenditure of power, I find peace.

There's poetry there, for somebody who takes the effort to dig it out.