Oftentimes the anticipation of an event is more memorable than the event itself. In this case, a slow-approaching summer storm. One of my first free-verse poems. 

[With each minute that passes by,
The air grows heavy, 
    And heavier still.] 
 
At dusk the sky is leaden overhead, 
The clouds fathoms deep and rudderless, 
    Moving aft, beckoning; 
Peering out my window, 
My hands scale the screen for first dew, — 
The lawn in checkered view, 
Breathes with swirling leaves, 
Marshaled by a brutal upcreeping wind. 
 
To the east, the birds rally and dive, 
And sing a melancholy strain, trying 
To outflank the widening thunder 
That barrels hollow across the sky. 
Then all at once, it arrives: 
    A precipitation of glory! 
Silent quasars release o’er yon, 
Beacons of the advancing march, then 
Great gouts of rain crackle the ground, 
    Splashing my elbows on the sill. 
 
In the distance, an old man slogs outside 
To batten the doors of his shop; 
From his hand a single ray of light 
Pierces the dark, and bounces 
Along the mud-splattered ground.