It rains, and the sound is still so unusual as to be poetic. Spatter and splat, the rain falls. Slick as a whistle the sidewalks gleam.
I'm not tired of it yet. Breathe a sigh of relief. Each moment of rain takes us one step back from the edge of disaster. Each drop wets the way for the one to fall behind it, circulating moisture through this dry earth, this parched land, this unweeping sore spot.
It could rain all night, and I'll lull myself into thinking it's doing the good that needs to be done, soaking the earth, filling the lakes, mapping new highs on the dry lakebeds. I'll imagine riding on a raindrop all the way to earth, the concussion of the final hit against moist ground, the shattering into a million droplets of good, the glimmering final ride to usefulness. I could be the bottom of the lake, the edge of the shoreline, the browned tips of long pine needles, the skinny fence slats, each of them drinking up the clouds that fall.
Keep on raining. I don't mind one bit. Frizzy hair and all, let it come.
I'll launch a prayer of thanksgiving as the curls draw tight. Say thank you, thank you kindly, because it looks like it's going to rain awhile.