A little while ago, the sun was on the rise. A pale yellow was seeping through the grayish eastern sky while in the west, dark clouds of an April thunderstorm threatened. The classic battle: light vs dark. Shows up all the time in the literary world (and even the real one). Weather being what it is (cold fronts, warm fronts, high and low pressure systems, swirling disturbances in the upper atmosphere, cold air colliding with warm humid air), the signs were clear: rain, coming my way.
I watch and listen for awhile. Coffee at my fingertips, pup at my feet. Flashes of light. Rolling thunder coming after. One. Two. Three. Rumble rumble rumble, Crack. But soft, this time. The real thunder clatter still at a distance. The steady rain sends robins and squirrels to the trees. Jack, trapped by glass doors and my unwillingness to smell wet dog, watches, whines — soft, like the thunder. Rain splatters the windowpanes and rolls off the rooftop, the excess rushing along the downspout. A settled gray presses in. Thunder and lightning interrupt the silence in my kitchen. In the rain I hear a thousand reasons to be thankful. In every sip of creamed coffee, comfort. In every newly greening blade of grass, hope. In this rain-washed morning, poetry.