Rain Running
Honk If You Understand
The steel-gray ceiling falls low. The downwash comes easy. The rain is reminiscent of early Spring, ignoring the day’s calendar strike of early autumn. Steady and straight falling, the shower begins painting the pavement in a clear coat, glossy and slick. My feet fall, sounding in soft slaps, sharing a subtle quickening of pace.
My shoulders feel the first mix of rain with an already sweat-soaked shirt. Sweat and rain, then changing to rain with sweat. Soon the soaking becomes only about the rain. Pooling across my shoulders, softly draining along the downspout of my spine. Drops trickling in twos and threes stream stronger to a steady, caressing flow.
It is rare, this rain, to be without wind along the coast of Virginia, so close to the sea.
Straight and true, the cascade creating the illusion of long, lighted strands, sparkling still in the flattest of light the low cumulus allowed.
My water weighted shoes coax me to lift my legs a little harder. The strides crashing in loud, puddled echoes. Pools and streams and rivers replace the glossy path of only a mile ago. There is no longer a need for judging how deep, for eyeing a dryer path around. There is only straight ahead. Shallows bring childlike splashes. Soft streams…
