It is the summer storm season, finally. The humid, hot afternoon air builds up to towering cumulonimbus thunderheads, each sailing ponderously through the skies overhead like giant ships. Most of the time the storms really are "isolated" - pushing through alone, highlighted by sunlight and casting huge shadows across the fields. Some meld together, as they did last night, to create a giant, whipping rainstorm.
Ray Bradbury described thunderstorms stalking across the landscape on lightning legs, a description that always comes to mind when I watch night-time rainstorms. The electrical power went out, darkening the house as though the storm would allow to competition for its pulsing light display. Two inches of rain, eight hours of power outage. Uncomfortable but worth suffering rather than sending any poor lineman out into that dark wind and rain.
Amazingly, the daylilies stood valiantly through the night and all blossoms were high and brave this morning. Some of the tetraploid hybrids have such huge blooms that I'd assumed all stems would be broken. A storm that snaps trees -- but the lilies survive. Brave plants! I hope the several mockingbird nests did as well. There's one in a large variegated, tree-form ligustrum that hangs over my head when I'm puttering in the daylilies and its occupant, intently mothering in the nest over my head, has been hissing and squawking at me daily. Last summer the mockingbirds were so irate and protective that walking to the barn required taking a tennis racket to wave for protection. (I never actually swatted a Mocker, of course, but the dratted bird-parents were determined to connect with my head!)