It Rained

It rained, and all the forgotten fragrances of orchard, earth and chaparral were suddenly revived. Ripening persimmons blushed in their trees, a stag paused beside the road and stared at me for a good long moment before he ran away, a row of mailboxes stood like silent sentries, one with its mouth wide open.

It rained, and stocks were falling and Boomers everywhere re-imagined their retirement and fingers pointed and anger bloomed. The fruit from a thorny cluster of cactus dropped to the ground, exploding like cherry bombs, each oozing its magenta jam. Coyote sang like Caruso beneath my window and left his berry-beaded scat in the driveway.

It rained, and everything was in the air: monarch butterflies and dragonflies and a boisterous covey of quail and the tiny jeweled hummingbird who loiters at the sage and the great rolling clouds and the high-stepping dreams and the things we were promised and the things that we feared and the things we are hoping for still.