The rain arrived with ferocity. Not the timid tapping of polite weather. A baritone deluge. The sky split its seams and spilled whole rivers from the wound. Wind seized the water by the fistful and flung it sideways across the prairie. The house stood in the darkness taking the blows, old bones creaking, while rainwater searched every weakness with the patience of a locksmith. Even the basement walls began to perspire earth. Thunder dragged its colossal furniture across the heavens. That sound. That magnificent reverberation. A tectonic syllable. A cathedral collapsing in slow motion. A god-sized heartbeat rolling beneath the ribs of the night. I stood listening as the world underwent liquefaction. Fence posts became ship masts. Roads became clay serpents. Fields became dark mirrors holding shattered pieces of lightning. The rain possessed an ancient appetite. It devoured dust. Devoured distance. Devoured the illusion that anything is separate from anything else. Every drop arrived carrying the memory of oceans. Every puddle became a temporary galaxy. Every gutter sang in tongues. The storm was not falling from the sky. The sky was descending. And beneath blankets, wrapped in warmth while the windows trembled with weather, I felt a peculiar absolution. The rain was doing all the living for me. The clouds were thinking. The thunder was speaking. The wind was pacing the halls of existence. I was free to simply be. To drift. To soften. To become one more quiet thing floating inside the vast aqueous dream of the world.
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