Sitting outside on the porch just before a Thunder Storm hovers over, the windows shuddering, the boughs of trees swaying in all directions, and the little helicopters spinning down to the grass, moving to the spiral winds like a woman's hair to a blow dryer early in the morning just before work, the sound telling you almost time to start your day, too. Can you hear the rumbling in the distance? Are the angels bowling, like my father and mother have told me when I was a child, running into their bed in the middle of the night, freightened by these crashing sounds, and the green flickering of the Lightning that made me see claws and faces on my bedroom walls. What War was going on above the clouds? Angels and demons? What was this rushing through my mind, what is this, this Storm? O what is it about Storms?