rainy september

 It was 5 p.m. in September, not even fall yet, and it was already dark outside, save the warm glow from the street lamp and the cars speeding down University. My plans to go to the Trinity this afternoon were washed away by the rain, along with loose dirt, lost masks, and any inkling left of a half-hearted desire to run errands.

Storms are mesmerizing and thrilling to be in, whether that be frolicking in the downpour as it cleans your sweat and tears and dirt off your cleats in the middle of a soccer field or on a normal Tuesday night curled up in bed, doing homework to the cascading of raindrops over the canopy of trees attempting to keep your driveway warm and dry and the drum of the thunder and the crackling of the lightning seemingly so close to your new old house.

Is the sky performing when it storms, putting on a show for its earthlings? Or is it all-knowing of the need to start anew, all-knowing of the auras that need to be reset, all-knowing of the grass on the quad that needs quenching after an outburst of a never-ending stampede of adolescent feet over it after five months of tranquility? 

Either way, it cleans the street art, both professional and amateur, off the sidewalk, and turns our compost bin living in the backyard into a not-so-appetizing moldy stew our tenet opossum will definitely find appealing.  

When it subsides, the storm could leave a rainbow or perfectly dewy grass or simply just a feeling of peace and content--hopefully this storm will leave all three.