Let the lightning flash, the thunder roll across the mesa.
Let my senses, my skin, drink it in.
Let my soul be baptized in this wild and lonely place.
Rather than run when the clouds blossomed into thunderheads and the rain fell in long, grey streaks, I sat at the mouth of the canyon, watching the storms take shape and drift toward me. I laughed with the thunder, found raw beauty in the lightning, and felt joy with the rain on my skin.
(I become the clouds, the wind, the storm itself. I grow, I become stronger. I cover the sky, the mesa. I ran down on the land, bringing the promise of spring.)
I braved the storm till the last minute, and finally, as the skies opened above me and the hail came down, I ran through the sweet, wet sage and headed for higher ground.