There’s just been a big gullywasher that passed over our house and the hillocks around it. Looming grey and dark and rolling across the sky while white wisps of cloud precede it, heralding it’s break across the land. Even from afar it was a wall, becoming all of my view as I drove home. And as I came closer towards it, I could not wait for the ecstasy of rain. The way that, even inside the house, you are still in the rain because of the roar upon our tin roof. Instead of a home that stretches outward towards the horizon to embrace a landscape, it is always as if the roof became one with the cloud.
Afterwards, the rain’s done that thing: left its trace by seemingly remaking the world into Oz. Or at least into the polychrome of sunset-after-rain; is there a word for the color of the world after rain like there is petrichor, for the smell of the earth after a rain? It almost feels as if it would be wrong to open the door, as if to shatter an illusion, as impossible as the thought of stepping into a painting. And so I just stood and watched from the windows, marveling at the hidden colors uncovered.