the first spring rain

A storm is rolling in.

I'm sitting outside the library when the temperature drops about five degrees and the sky starts turning dark. The clouds are like an ocean of gray and white, with purple undertones, but they are blotchy overhead, shifting, like shapes in a vision or dream. Twisting, untangling, rushing past.

It begins with the clouds. But then comes the wind.

It breaks upon me like a wave of furious seawater; I can hear the rumbling of its approach before it beaches itself, blowing dust into my ears and catching at my hair with trembling fingers. Lady Spring smiles seductively and blows and all the leaves of autumn flee (where do the autumn leaves go before the summer has come?), twisting in wild dervishes, scuttling about like bewildered sparrows and finches on the ground. A frenzy of frantic butterflies they fly, soaring in a twister in the air, then dashing themselves up against the walls of brick and stone.

But still, no rain.

I can hardly see (the wind tears at my eyes), I am beginning to shiver (who knew it was 80 degrees only a few minutes ago?), and I am starting to wonder if I should make a run for my car now, or simply wait out the storm and hope I can get back without dooming my laptop to a waterlogged demise.

There is electricity in the air. My teeth are beginning to chatter (but perhaps from excitement). The sound in my ears is only the wind, but I am waiting for the thunder.

I notice a rather large insect on the wall (not quite a beetle, but some kind of leafbug?). He stands unhampered by the wind, little caring as to the weather. He has weathered many storms in his time, and fears not wind nor rain nor lightening (I wonder, does lightening ever strike the unwary bug and burn him in his tracks?).

A few minutes pass. The wind dies down. The sky becomes a solid sheet of gray.

And then comes the rain.

It starts as a few large dragon-tears, dripping from the sky like a leaky faucet. Then more, and they're falling on the trees making a satisfying dripdripdrip sound that thrills me to the marrow. Birds sing to their young. A morning dove coos.

Something that maybe is thunder whispers soothing poetry overhead. I take a deep breath of the moist air and--yes, there it is. The smell of rain.

What does rain smell like? Well scientifically, it's ozone rising from the warm ground, but I'll tell you what it smells like:

East Texas mornings
and roadtrips
mist rising from South Dakota lakes
coffee shops in Colorado
poetry
scones
the feathers of finches
a little like chlorine and hotel rooms
hot showers
and a kiss from Mother on my cheek.

The thunder is artillery and the rain taps a tattoo on the pavement. The sky is a graphite drawing of the sea.

And at last I give in. I can't stand it a moment longer.

It is time to join the finches and autumn leaves and gently tapping raindrops
it is time to dance in the rain.