The soft rat-tat-tat on the patio roof signaled the second rain of the day. The July monsoons were in full swing. Warm moist air coming from the Pacific slides over the mountains and the bottom falls out, wresting moisture from the dark, gray clouds.

I put my book down to enjoy the sound. Rain is rare enough on the Front Range of Colorado for a gardener to take a moment to appreciate the event.

White light flashed into the living room, momentarily creating shadows. I heard Bonnie softly counting: “one-thousand one, one-thousand two,. . .” and the boom came, rattling the house.

“Close one!” she said. I nodded and resumed listening to the rain water the lawn, the garden, the flowers.

Rejoining the conversation in my book, I smiled over life in the mill towns of northern Indiana, recorded by American humorist Jean Shepherd.

And the second boom came, followed by a shower of smaller cracks, this time man-made, as some nitwit in the neighborhood fired off a leftover from the Fourth, celebrating in some primeval way his need to make noise.

The rain increased, shutting down the pyrotechnics, the book beckoned and peace returned.