every telling

The rain returns, filling the street with damp questions. It drizzles from the eaves, it sways in the stride of wind struck limb. It paints the pavement and changes the course of all these rivers normally small and dry. It taps on my window, a small tattoo of rhythm freed of the conspiracies of music. Ever so softly, it calls me.

I like to be there when the hard cracked clay first begins its transformation. I like the feeling of the air purged of this sullen dust. The color of the scrub jay as it sweeps down into weed and gravel. The thought of a candlelit blackout night over twenty years ago. I like to walk without the hesitance of waiting for the world to dry. Settling into some parallel rhythm as the cold water seeps through clothes and shoes. Enjoying whatever portion of the day is left to bless.

The air is chill, and I am sore and weary, awakened from a dream of puzzled contentment to the world that will have me. The clock panders to those with means and plans, eking out each morsel of you are already too late. The rain spatters the glass, it spills and it charms. From the sky to the earth to the gutter, bound by tradition and precedent. The stories always run out a little before the end, changing skins and theme songs. Every telling reshapes every breath and bone. Every ending met with sadness and rejoicing.