It’s still afternoon, not even evening, and the lamp posts on my street are lit.
The house is dark.
The rain pours outside, drenching the yards and flowing ebulliently into the storm drains. The hail periodically hitting the windows and the metal roof on the shed over the wood pile sounds like clothes with snaps and buttons tumbling in a dryer. Lightening flashes, thunder rumbles (as they are wont to do).
Happy Father’s Day, dad.