By David Duenas
Finally, the first rain of the summer comes at the end of it. And it is soft… I can hardly hear it even now. Outside it is still warm, and the rain is warm too. They are soft delicate kisses on the skin…earth, raw cement, the flesh of leaves and windblown whispers… Everyone’s secrets spinning rhythmically in the rain. And the subtlety of it is so tight and small, it is mostly silence. But a musical silence, as when a boy is caught looking at the object of his affection, and she returns his stare, at first confused, and then delighted.
The rain tonight won’t mean anything, and doesn’t need to. It needs only to touch, extend its arm and reach to the surface of anything, and hold and fall like lovers on an unmade bed. To dry up and age and become nothing once again. To be, finally, beautiful.