Dark-browed and glistening, the thunder danced and cavorted all night long in the roiling skies above us, stamping its feet, banging its pots and calabashes. Lightning ripped the sky, with a sound of tearing cotton or bamboo splitting and lit up the bedroom where we lay, warm and safe, under the duvet. The rain sluiced down, rinsing the bowed trees that swayed in the wind outside.

Energetic and boisterous, the thunder spoke, in the spaces between waking and sleeping. ‘I’m back,’ it said, ‘I’m back. Here I am.’

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