Comments, corrections or anything please :)

Accidentally found my old email account after 4 years of not posting

I wrote this essay for fun, any constructive comments would be welcomed ^^

A Rainstorm

Of all the wonders of the world, none impresses me more than the grandeur of a rainstorm. Rainstorms are life-giving, yet destructive. Rainstorms are wanted, yet unwanted. Rainstorms, despised by most, enjoyed by little, respected by even less, are torrential tributes to the earth. Without rainstorms, we cannot live. Without rainstorms, plants cannot grow. However angle you look at it, rainstorms are events worthy of respect.

Rainstorms are mighty. An impending rainstorm instills fear in all. We all get a bad feeling when the sky turns gray, the clouds black, and the atmosphere heavy. These symptoms are merely indications, warnings that a rainstorm is imminent. And their effects on the environment are astounding: flowers close their delicate petals; animals frantically find a hiding place. The wind, the rainstorm's messenger, howls, announcing the lord's arrival.

The lord has come. At first, a drizzle, nothing more than a sprinkle. We get worried, that the clothes are still on the lines, that the cab might not come. Then, immediately, the rain pours down, giving no warning. The sky is filled with raindrops; the ground is battered by rain. Sheets after sheets of water pour down. The lord, infuriated, sends down torrent after torrent, a beautiful display of art. Instantly, everything unsheltered, everything unprotected, is drenched through. Some of us curse, the clothes have been wetted. Some of us sigh, mourning a perfect evening ruined. Some of us ignore it, preferring to hide indoors. Some of us smile, spirits uplifted by the downpour. Some of us rejoice, crops watered by the rain.
Now, the true display of the lord's fury has started! The lord strikes: Bolts of lightning streak across the sky, displaying a feat powerful enough to destroy almost anything. The lord shouts: Thunder rumbles, battering our eardrums, leaving them ringing. The forks of lightning carve the sky intricately, albeit for only a second, and then disappear, leaving imprints on the sky-gazers' eyes. The rolls of thunder are like a powerful strike on a drum, punctuating the constant batter of the rain, the lyrical howl of the winds. A rainstorm is a performance, with the lightning performing, the wind and rain playing, the thunder punctuating. To some of us, it is only a nuisance, another wave of static to be tuned out. To some of us, it is background noise, to be ignored. To some of us, it is honey to the ears, the steady but chaotic battering of the winds gently playing a lullaby. To some of us, it is the music of life, watering the land.

However majestic the rainstorm may be, it eventually comes to an end. From a torrential tribute to the land, the magnificent rainstorm gradually lessens, and finally ceases. After a disaster, it is common to survey the scenery, and estimate the damage done. However, after a rainstorm, it is rare that one will survey the scenery, and admire the beauty brought about by the rainstorm. I lament this, if not because the grandeur of the rainstorm goes unnoticed, then because one of the most brilliant display of natural art goes by people, no more than a flicker of a candle.

After a rainstorm, liveliness is at its peak: In the forgotten outskirts of the city, one can almost feel the brimming sensation of life. In the meadows, a hedgehog peeps out; in the jungle, the blackbird hoots. In the wilderness, a robin takes the lead: He sings, a clear voice amid the lively chatter of the forest. Somewhere near, a sparrow chirps, backup for the lead singer. And soon, the whole forest is in harmony, an unnoticed concert of peculiar instruments. Towards the ending of the masterpiece, a hungry eagle calls, its clear voice carrying over the last notes of music. The birds scatter.

In the streets, the first of the children peeps out: "Hey everybody! Let's play tag!" Within seconds, the streets are filled with children chasing each other, happy laughter carrying clearly up into the heavens. Cars start appearing on the roads: A green one, a red one, a black one, a white one...... Soon, the roads are filled with colourful ants, and the good-natured cursing begins again. The housewives chat to each other as they hang out laundry; the adolescents exchange gossip in the alleyways, unheard by any other than the rats, who have, in turn, started searching for food again. They don't know what they are talking about, nor do they care.