WHEN IT RAINS

Montana State University

When it rains I hear things that don’t exist in sunlight, like the hiss of car tires displaced from their whisper, a yawning umbrella awning, back-of-the-throat gutter gurgle, and the raindrops on the roof tapping like a troupe of mice learning how to dance.

I sit for hours watching water trickle down the pane, counting through the blur rainboots and bowed heads, darkened shoulders and children in yellow ponchos.

Through the blur remembering windshield wipers and their curve, the corners of the glass where reaching arms miss, the flicker of the turn signal.

Remembering rain freckled cheeks and muddied puddle mirrors, the mattress dimpling beneath tiptoes straining to let ear meet ceiling and hear the patter, thunderclaps and tender hands scrubbing quickly in the shower for fear of lightning traveling through pipes.