Long before the day was fully wet, the air came lapping with its fine feeling for the future; at first, merely whispering about its moist intentions, and then pulling back, like a sigh of forgetfulness, a change of heart; leaving the impression of leaving. It would return in time, with its subtle forecast; awakening us gradually to its intimate possibilities; convincing us of its certainty by its patient repetition.
The spring rain, like everything watery, arrives in waves; in breaths; in pregnant periods of ebb and flow. Building potential at each new pulse, it finally fills the air for a duration; Drenching by its gentle inevitability rather than by a flash of sudden summer power.
And when it leaves, it leaves with a promise to return; in an hour, in a day, in the silence of the moon; to soak again the dark soil, to shine the new leaves it has left translucent for the warming sun.