Steel gray skies arrive on blustery gusts of frigid wind.
Birds, barometers with wings, abandon their feeders
to seek shelter deep in the arms of a familiar willow.
Golden leaves, recent arrivals in the currents
of yesterday\'s storm, swirl around the
base of a tall, slender cedar.
It will happen soon.
It will come.
Wait.
Faint tapping sounds announce the first arrivals
as droplets strike the skylight, advance guests
from darkening skies. Then fat drops
detonate on sidewalks, gather into
small pools, merge to become
a steady flow into the grated
gutter on the corner.
Sonata.
Sounds are everywhere. A percussion orchestra
supported by kettle drums of thunder and
mixed voices in the wind. The music
of rain echoes along the boulevard,
spattering, harmonizing in
puddles and ponds.
Adagio.
Everything is washed clean when the black sky
begins to lighten, turning soft gray as if
depleted, exhausted by the effort.
The music stops. The baton
rests. Everything glistens.
Quiet.