What can YOU say in six sentences?
Curtains of rain gave closure to each side of the port cochere as I stood awash in breezes carrying the aroma of freshly laundered air.
It knows how to rain in New Orleans, and the proof was audible in thunder-boomers articulating different movements of The Downpour Symphony better than the cannon of the "The 1812 Overture."
The squall intensified and lessened, delivering staccatoed percussions to the sidewalk and street with different timbres, as if Mother Nature were free-form dancing to the music of an unpredictable beat of a song whose performance delivered continuous tranquil enchantment.
Day into night, into next and the next, it rained on, diminishing traffic by foot, car and rail.
Flood and fear mixed a biting cocktail for residents turning their backs on TV sports to see tornado watches and warnings flashed on every local channel's screen, with pictures of neighborhoods evacuating while ships pawed at the gulf's rough waters unable to make port, unable to clear their superstructures under the bridges due to the Mississippi's water level.
Wind and rain and thunderstorms were quieting and disquieting, not dampening spirits as much as reconstituting, rehydrating, exhuming ininvited memories from six years before.