Standing out on the gravel, I can see the storm coming.
Heavy and grey, rolling in from the West with steady intent.
The damp air shifts nervously, pushing back fog, gusting up from the ground
As the sky finally opens
And the first cold fat drops plummet to the clay.
Gathered on the porch of the red wooden shack,
We press back against the wall, away from the wide waterfalls
That run wild over the gutters and spill out
Flooding the mulch walkways with ankle deep puddles.
I sink my feet into them and walk slowly,
already soaked,
to my car.
I want to stand out there with my face to the sky
Feeling the spirit of my ancestors
cling to me like my t-shirt
and dance to the sound of the thunder breaking.
But people are watching,
and the roads are flooding.
This is no time for a rain dance.
In the shelter of the car,
I strip down to my underwear and turn on the defroster.
My clothes soak the passenger seat,
and my windows steam.
I light a cigarette.
Rain taps out an angry rhythm on the roof,
and I turn the radio up, rolling through swamped streets
that threaten to swallow the vehicle from the tires down..
Halfway home the storm breaks, slightly,
turning over to soft showers singing on wet leaves.
The breeze rustles through tree tops, whispering the secrets of life,
And wet earth breathes the smell of an ancient memory,
Where once we dared to dance in the lightning.
