The dripping has slowed to a rumor now, leaf to leaf, eave to mud, and the whole yard smells like something that has finally been allowed to say what it meant.
I did not watch the storm come in. I was at the table with old mail and cold coffee, and then the light changed the way a mood changes— suddenly and all at once, with no clear beginning.
Now the chair on the porch holds a small lake in its seat. The fig tree is heavy and very still. A cardinal lands on the fence post, looks once in each direction, and decides against whatever he was considering.
I know that feeling.
The concrete is dark where the water ran and pale already where it’s leaving, and I keep watching that line between the two, that slow retreat, thinking there is probably something here I should write down before it goes— though I am not sure yet what it is, or whether words would be the right container for it.