Pockets of Sky
It was summer. The thunder was rolling and rolling and rolling some more. There was no rain. Just thunder. The song was called No Magnatone but it began with a slow fuzzy crawl that sounded like you’d expect an old shot to hell Magnatone amp to sound like. The rolling thunder and the crawling fuzz thought about merging as they dipped over and under each other. Instead they stayed separate. Forcing your awareness onto one caused you to lose focus on the other.
The rain would come any minute. You could see it in how the leaves moved. Up and buoyant-like with small bounces. It was different than regular wind and hard to explain but when you saw it you recognized it and could sense it and knew that a rain was coming. The sky was getting dark but the silhouettes of the trees were darker. A greyish pale blue with thick leafy canopies splayed out in black against it. Tearing away at the light. Pockets of sky broke through where they could. But the battle was lost. Night was on us and rain was coming.
The first drops sounded like rocks kicked around in a tin can. Bullets. Daggers. Arrows. Falling in symphony. Hard as they hit and soft as they soaked in. It wouldn’t be long before the ditch that ran adjacent to their house would begin to fill and probably spill over if the last few storms were any indication of what was to come. It came from the highway directly behind them. It was broken up by a strip of white oaks and tulip trees and other hardwoods. The rain had been washing their way for years. Before there was a road. And certainly before there was a house. It rolled down in sheets and waves and rivers. Mostly due to the drop in elevation and the sloping hill. But there was also a natural water source. A fresh spring. Small. But steady.