A Thing of Permanence

Sky crashes. Heaven's pots and pans free-falling 10 stories to an aluminum sink, a bed of shattered glass. The sidewalk floats by, trees struggling out of the pavement shake like a Baptist choir singing 'God bless the rain!' Earth beads itself, a drop on the hood of a shiny red car, ready to break, ready to roll. Will we all ride down the curves into a puddle on one of life’s side streets? My clothes are soaked through, hair clinging to shoulders and face, seaweed on a rock. I've given up on weaving through the dry and wet spaces, refused to huddle under the eaves of passing buildings. This is a slow, peaceful, piercing rain that bounces off the pavement as soon as it hits. But there is no violence in it. Only relief at the end of this sauna summer day. An intermission from the pudding-thick air and toaster-oven subway, from the persistent growling under my skin for a gulp of something cool. The water washes the stains from the sidewalk, a million footprints and dog farts, gum wrappers and beer bottles, bum piss and ice cream mishaps. An urban track washed into the gutter, leaving a sand dune without footprints, a trail with no scent.