Places where it never stops raining and
Places where it never starts
Miss out on the slow preparation, the build towards
The inevitable downpour.
It’s a taste on the tongue, on the air,
Thick and earthy, with an undercurrent of ozone.
It is a heaviness against the skin.
It is the way the birds startle upwards and flee into the branches.
It is a yielding sigh of a breeze, tracing moisture across cheeks and hands,
Prelude to the heavier bath.
That balance can sit and build and wait.
It is more teasing, more subtle than the profane glory of the storm
And almost as subtle as the aftermath.
Almost as subtle as the delicate lacing left
On the nasturtiums in the gravel.
Both the subtle and the non-subtle aspects of nature fascinate me.