it's electric

I took his rough hand and gave it a firm shake. "He's the best electrician in the City. Well..." (he paused) "This guy's not just an electrician, he's an electrical artist." His eyebrows raised with the enunciation of his title, as if I should be impressed. I was more inquisitive than impressed. I followed the contractor and his virtuoso down the hall, my mind trying to imagine what type of electrical "art" the contractor meant.
* * *
We gathered on the porch to watch the storm. Arm wrapped around the column, I crossed one leg over the other and rested my head against the post, pensive. My line of site was just above the roof. Lightning cracked across the summer sky, bright white against dark gray. Electrical art. E's face lit up and un-lit all in an instant, the Artist in the Sky commander of a giant switch board. The rumble of thunder followed as neighborhood girls ran barefoot from one porch to another. I felt a drop on my shoulder; one on my cheek. I tucked my head back under the porch, wiping the raindrop from my face.

Within seconds, the ground was covered in dark spots, speckling the dry cement until all the spots met at the edges, merging to make a solitary wet canvas. I listened to E and S talk about this and that, voices clouded by the clapping of thunder. I only caught bits of conversations here and there; so many thoughts floating in and out; rows and rows of big dark clouds.
* * *
After everyone left and all but one here at the YBH had tucked in, I switched off the lights on the porch. As I closed the blinds, lightening continued to flash in the night sky; an electrical composition, artistic indeed.