We watched each other in the rain, the hawk and I.
There is a certain infinity to things. No singular glance is merely a passing fact encapsulated in a moment of glass. Nor are we pawns moved about in some colossal game of chess. Every grain of existence is moved by the crests and troughs of a universal sea. To love but not touch. To walk but not fly. To exchange the words tethered to a truth that cannot be wholly given away . . . it matters little because at some place in the ebb and flow of this current, we converge in totality. At some place, we never left.
The rain gurgles and hums all day, filling frozen depressions with more water than is manageable. Well if it isn't snow, it's rain; my watery core feels compensated. One does tend to think of cresting rollers when joy rides itself this far into shore.
Sparrows startle from under the wheel well. My own giggle and the flutter lifts as I offer my truest apologies for disrupting the hidden meeting. The smell of fish and worms rises from the pavement because that is how Michigan rain smells. I'm surrounded by water and it's a wonder to me why I haven't begun to build the ark. Where is there to go?
All this rain is like the cold curtain of mist and unrelenting showers that fall for three months straight in the highlands of Kenya. There is a sodden story to share – a crafted telling of how the impoverished feeds the starving. She hovers over my shoulder as I wash the dishes, and she watches me bathe. I feel her heartbeat falling into sync mine. Her voice no longer soft and soothing, instead she is now ready to be heard.
Perhaps it is time to go again – to write towards still.
The snow is going.
As am I.