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Rain Song

Rain falls.

It is soothing today. WHen I walked out the smell of grass and wet pavement greeted me like a song from memory and for an instant I was small again. I was walking through the puddles and the green-yellow grass with the other children with no shoes on, watching the clouds descinding on the hill behind the house, the one I have for many years wanted to climb.

THe wolf lived on that hill in the stories i told to scare my brother. *Dad threw the worlf over the hill. far far away* he responded, two years old but with authority.

it is one of the clearest memories i have. summer rain. and its beauty is so profound and so aching that it still wrenches me inside. when i shut my eyes i can hear the wind again, blowing the rain towards us.

how it starts slowly, in the cypresses first, the joyful tremor of those days that dawn without sunlight, when pregnant cloud descends, and the wind is a frisson in the trees, a murmur in my own heart.

in summer rain was joy. it meant a change from the sun, merciless. it meant water, the end of drought. it meant a shudder of deep pleasure from the crooked fig trees, a deep song of recognition from the cypress and the gentle tender wakening dance of grass. and beyond the house, the song expands. it is the sensuous murmur of oleanders, the sleepy, shy humm of nightflowers the protective clucking of the grape vines, heavy with fruit. expanding further to the old oak, and the green wood, to the dirt road, and the chorus of cows and goats and sheep, further still until it reaches the sea and its own throaty song.

and it meant puddles. the ability to splash around and run across a land teeming with pleasure, feel that joy in my hands, in my feet, feel it permeate every aspect of my being until i too was part of the song, soaring soaring to the rain cloud on the hill.

and we'd be wearing small plastic jackets and no shoes, and

there is some crystal perfection in those recollections of childhood, a lost thing. and if i could have any of my life back to live again, if i could stop and bend time and memory at will, i would pick two moments;

one with my father, being held and the other is this- being small in the beauty of the rain.


deep sky, firefly

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