I opened my door this morning to a promise of rain. I had not expected it. I had not even intended to open the door, but there was a coolness and a shadow in the room that suggested an interesting sky, even with all the curtains closed.
Already I can see the fierce brightness of summer bleaching away the edges of the storm, and I know my chances of rain are small. I'd like to say the promise was enough. The momentary comfort of chilled air, the beauty of grey where it has too long been blank merciless blue. But the truth is, I want that promise fulfilled - rain. I want the faint thundery wind to be saying something meaningful.
And yes ... it has just fallen, gentle and white, a moment like a poem. Now even the light lying across my table is sanctified. The world smells of soil and leaf and secrets. I still do not believe in promises, I've had too much summer for that. But I remember that rain can exist, somewhere behind the sun.
photograph by Miguel Constantin Montes