Pregnant Sky

The earth has been so dry that in our back yard, deep crevices are carved into the ground below our crunchy grass. If you lean over these cracks, millions of tiny ants and roly polies swarm in these underground condominiums, and if you stand barefoot, and close your eyes and face it in the direction of the beating sun, you can feel the heat enveloping you from above while it creeps up the back of your heel and radiates towards your toes.

And finally, after barely any rain for a month, I saw the dark clouds looming in the west.

"Come to Mama," laughed my friend Jan, beckoning to the rain clouds. We were in her back garden, a lovely patch filled with leafy good things. In any direction, you see her efforts to keep the earth cool and moist so plants can eke out an existence during the dry summer.

The garden hose. Watering cans. Rain barrels.

But overhead, things looked more and more turbulent. We said our goodbyes to Jan, and kept looking skyward as we raced home in an attempt to reach our laundry, drying on the line. I jumped out of the car and immediately gathered my towels and sheets, wrapping my arms around their lovely warmth so I could spread them on my table and fold them, tuck them safely into the kitchen drawer and linen closet.

The sky got blacker. With our towels safely inside, we continued driving to the grocery store.

The pregnant sky is full of hope, anxious, excited, ready to burst with rain. The world stills in respect of the pregnant sky, and we all wait, feeling the electricity in the air and the anticipation of something we've been wanting for a long time.

The grocery list can wait. We stand in the parking lot, staring, slack-jawed, toward the heavens. Over my right shoulder, a man wearing his work out clothes is taking a video of this black sky, streaked with Mother Nature's paintbrush. Another couple stand nearby, pointing upwards. I want it to stay this way forever.

The rain does not come, but the clouds are changing every second, churning and tumbling closer and closer. The wind makes its entrance first, whooshing in our ears and flipping leaves up on end to expose their silver bellies. Everything feels awake and alive.

And then, a crack of thunder splits the air in half.

The rain has come.