The first storm of the season slams into the village as a wall of wind and dust that turns the world apocalyptic orange. Everyone runs for cover—people into the batiment and animals to the leeward side of huts. Huge, cold raindrops start slowly but soon become a torrent. The storm brings a ten degree temperature drop and a wet, woodsy smell that lingers through the next day.
(It also drives great masses of earwigs out of the poles of my hut roof, from where they drop down and get into everything… but I choose instead to focus on the awe of the storms and the magic of all the things—bright green sprouts, crumbly termite towers, velvety red bugs—that emerge from the wet soil.)