Rain surprised me on my way home yesterday.
Sky darkened, like someone quietly dimmed the lights in the brightly lit music hall.
Downpour opened quite suddenly. An urgent symphony.
Large droplets landing in their thousands, still warm and fragrant but no longer of the kind that makes you want to dance and laugh and kiss under. Rather to seek shelter.
In the houses dotted on the side of the uphill road I took, people were closing shutters on their windows. Picking up washings left to dry outside. Hurrying their children inside.
The last storm of summer.
Some dawns will still arrive bursting with promise of brilliant sunshine. And some afternoons will still unfold mellow with warmth.
Their brevity only equal to their beauty.
I did not hurry.
I wished for the smell of dampened earth and flowers and grass to permeate my nostrils, my skin, my eye sockets, curious tubes inside my ears, cavity of my mouth.
To lie into the embrace of a moist and heavy garden, lulled into sleep by whispers, sashaying of leaves, caresses of gentle breeze,
My hair tangled with petals and smeared with blood of small insects.
Before I reached home, evening tiptoed in and air stiffened with cold.
That night I dreamed of running under the summer skies of my youth.