I was driving home tonight, to a sky out of an apocalyptic imagination, with darkness and heavy black above me and twilight over pink clouds to the north. Where the two met was a solid line, a clear demarcation between evening and night, but in the wrong parts of the sky.
I had my camera with me, but no tripod. The city stood against the lighter, undulating clouds, and I really, really wanted to stop to take some photos.
Good thing that I didn’t.
As I pulled parallel with Grant Park, silver-dollar-sized splotches of rain spattered my windshield, one, and then another, and then another. Bits of trees broke off, and then suddenly it was as though someone set the lake on sprinkler, but not the wimpy small-arc sprinkler, the take off your toes when you run through it kind.
As I rounded past Navy Pier, I couldn’t see and the road was flooded. Insane lighting struck north, straight ahead, bolt after bolt after bolt in what looked to be exactly the same spot.
So much for that “lightning never strikes twice,” theory.
And then, just as suddenly, the rain let up, making me look hysterical for having the wipers on high.
(Please note that no pixels were harmed in the sharpening of this photo).
Lucky for me there was still some lightning left when I got home.
If only I had better focus, because it's the strangest picture I ever blurred.