“Blessed relief,” says a low and rumbling whisper, a long way off.
We try not to listen to that siren song – not to allow ourselves the misspent luxury of hope.
We know those clouds. We know their beguiling charms, their empty promises.
Against our better judgement though, when the whispers have turned to roars that rattle our chests, and our resolve, we begin to think, “maybe, just maybe.”
We don’t say it out loud.
The cicadas say it for us – scream it for us. They, in their leafy lookouts are at a fever pitch, a frenzy wrought in summer’s forge.
The air above the black top dances, oily and hypnotic, but we will not be persuaded to think it – that it smells like rain.
A sky rippling crack sounds, and the cicadas cease their sputtering petition.
We too hold our breath, and cannot help but smile over
on sun-baked skin.
We half expect it to sizzle.
Each pair of eyes looks up, pleading now, without pretense.
And then it comes, the rain, this reigning moment of purest pleasure.
Let every living thing rejoice.