This morning it rained in a way I rarely see hereabouts. It was National Geographic rain, Impressionist painter rain -- monsoon rain.
Woke up to the steady drumming, punctuated by an occasional heavy PLOP! as the larger tree branches above the roof would release heavy droplets of accumulated rain. As the intensity grew, the latter were lost in the onrush. Looked out the window and found the world transformed, the air suffused with water.
The only difference between outdoors and an aquarium was the density. Every fat drop that hit -- and they were nearly having to shove each other out of the way in their mad devotion to gravitation -- every drop exploded into a dozen droplets. It was like a coarse-mesh fog or very thin water, the early-morning light percolating through, slow as syrup and loaded with color, the assorted green of growing things exulting in the wet, charcoal-dark tree trunks, jewel-bright flowers, swaths of flatter color from nearby buildings....
I made my way to the front porch, where Tam was having a morning smoko, book ignored in her hand, gazing out at the water sparkling off roofs, sidewalks, the street. Lawns on the far side seemed distant through the haze; closer, the front yard glowed deep, textured green.
Halfway down the walk, the morning paper waited, wrapped in orange plastic. I thought about it, dry on the porch, then danced down the steps, splashed down the walk, grabbed, turned and ran back, already soaking wet.
As I came to light on the porch, Tam gave me a narrow look. "You'll hurt yourself."
"Didn't this time."
Besides, weather's not a photograph. It's not really raining if you never touched it.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago