Rhythms Hidden in the White Noise of Rain

Spring rains beat against the cold earth pounding softness back into the soil like a cook tenderizing a slab of meat. I stand before the window, place my hands on the sill and lean forward. The glass steams under my breath. Neither my eyes nor mind can focus as the unremitting rains blur the world outside. I’m reminded of paintings; Vegetable Garden at the Hermitage and Waterloo Bridge—and in seeing the world softly smudged as I do, I feel a sort of kinship with Pisarro and Monet.

I stare beyond the knobby branches of the apple tree, passed the rusty rebar and steel girded gardens, across the cratered, puddling dirt road. I stare into the empty space between the drops of rain—how oddly silent it is, a concert without sound. Out there, you would hear the drops explode in puddles and smack against the budding branches. Out there, your hair would clump and mat to your brow while the tops of your thighs darkened with rain.

Warm and dry, I muse by the window as motes of dust settle silently upon me—and then I go...Out there.