As he stood there with the
cool breeze blowing through his hair, he searched to find himself. He could
not.
All he could see with his
blank stare was the tree’s leaves turning over in unison, like the applause of
a grateful audience.
Then it began, one or two
drops at first, then rising into a gradual crescendo as the rain fell. It walked across the field slowly, yet at the
blink
Of an eye it was upon him.
It surrounded the porch on
which he sat and held him in its arms as it danced. He was lost in the quite
calm that the rain made as it echoed off the tin roof and streamed down the
gutters.
For a moment he was the rain
and it was him. His mind raced at the sight if this beautiful and mysterious
dance that was being performed before him as each drop danced into puddles.
A dance that now involved
him, but who was he that the rain should choose to reveal itself, to fall and
shower him in its magnificence.
Then, much like it had
started, it was over, the rain was gone and once again he was alone.
Soon, the sun would swoop
down and steal away all the gifts so graciously left, and there would be no
evidence of the beauty he had just witnessed.
Many others would pass by and
have no recollection of what had taken place here, but he would know.
He would remember and
he would wait until once again he was graced by the dance, and once again he
would surrender.
