It has stormed here for most of the summer. Loud storms rolled over us with a thick grey blanket of clouds. A shaken aspirin bottle with the cotton still capping the pills. My after-work naps interrupted by a flash illuminating the shadowed living room, and a simultaneous outburst from the mouth of the storm. Wake Up! it crashes against the house.
In between the sudden drenching, the heat shoulders back into the day. One minute I’m stooped against the onslaught walking across the street, tucked underneath my polka dot umbrella. The next minute, the sun crackles heat along my moist hairline.
Fog for the river mornings.
Slick and tacky thighs and back.
Weary evenings with moist patio chairs.
No need to water the outside plants for a week now.
The air conditioner ruining the environment, more so than normal.
I haven’t seen the two neighborhood cats for days and days.
While at work, I will hear the sudden downpour pattering the roof three floors up. I go stand under the awning – a smoke break without the smokes. I watch the puddles gather themselves along the dips and ruts of the parking lot, and I nod at co-workers standing along the length of the view. We are birds arranged on a power line. Tittering to each other hear and there, readjusting our wings, nodding our heads, and generally admiring the view. Until the rain stops as abruptly as it began, and again we all wonder aloud how unusual, before we fly back into our little nests.
On the rainy weekends, I crack the windows while in the car and curl my fingers over the edge. I open the kitchen door and stand with a cup of tea watching the wet assalt on the already waterlogged lawn. My bike seat is covered in droplets like a black duck. There are small dirty pools in the recycling bin. Boys ride their bikes through the street during rain-breaks — a stripe of mud along their spine as they hover over seats. Girls are conversational around flooded storm drains, their colorful rainboot-toes pushing the water around politely.
Right now the sky is bright and young, summer is still new. After a slow rainy morning, it covers itself in cloud puffs organized in a grid. But they are moving fast, hurried along by a high mother-wind like kindergardeners on a field trip. A pale sky blinks blankly as they all pass. The horizon is murky and uncertain, while streets are still brown-flooded from the days of rain.
It seems, like me, the sky has no set plans for the evening.