You wake early here when the rain rolls through. When waves of thunder rattle the house and the drumming of water against the metal roof becomes one incessant, overwhelming sound. A white static drowning out all thought.
So you rise in the darkness of those hours. You brew coffee by the greasy light above the stove. Then standing on the dilapidated back porch you watch the horse bolt about its pasture. You glimpse it for a second each time with each flash. A slick white ghost that lives within the lightning. It glistens with electric light. And as you watch that fleeting spirit you hate yourself for never finishing its stall.
You listen to the AC unit in the window working overtime. Even in the rain, the air still simmers with a heat hotter than any summer in England.
You sip the thick coffee in the dark worlds between the lightning, swirl the fine grounds that made it through the press against your teeth, and spit the black sediment into the downpour past the edge of the porch like a confession. Absolving your guilt.