the flutter of a hummingbird's wing

I grew up in the corner pocket of Texas, near the coast and hovering just above sea level.  Afternoon showers were not uncommon, rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightning would put you to sleep and the rain would fall in every way one can imagine.  We used to look out our kitchen window and watch the storms approach, clouds thickening and turning black and blue-"the blue norther" my father would call them.  I experienced the wilds of hurricanes, floods, and a twister or two but I've been away from them for too long and now grow weary and uneasy upon their arrival.

It's been seven years since I lived where storms visit frequently.  Two years spent in the arid mountain desert where I had only experienced on small clap of thundersnow and five in the heart of Texas, where the drought is prominent and storms are few and far between.  But when it is decided that a storm must blow through-it is quick and powerful.  And it puts me on edge.  I no longer like the rumbles of distant thunder or the sharp crack of an angry cloud.  I must admit, it scares me a little.

This storm flew in like the flutter of a hummingbird's wing.  Quick and powerful, the sky turned from fair to menacing in mere moments.  The winds swept in on a black and blue sky.  With the flash of lightning and the rolls of thunder the storm pushed through quickly and furiously.  It was just on the cusp of sunset when the sky turned sepia, then mauve; and then a rainbow followed.  It was faint and large, bowing over a dusky rose curtain.  To the west the sun had turned in for the day, saying goodbye to the heavy, gray clouds and leaving us with a spectacular sunset.