At 2 A.M. the house is a jug of sound; thrum on the bedroom wall, splat on the window sills, gurgling throughout a throaty song of praise like a besotted lover, like Rumi, heart swept up in the current. Going out a dawn, a nuptial shawl is upon all things green, a door thrown open to newness, go anywhere harried and hackneyed and it is there, the raindrops falling from the ash trees, the rites of rebirth.
Rain is grace.
Our rainy season extends (don’t stop, not yet.)
In northern Nigeria it has not yet begun.
Rita and I skype when her electricity is on.
“It’s been so hot and dusty. The mangos are coated with dust and crawling with ants.”
“I thought of you as I hiked the Cataract Trail waterfall to ferny waterfall.”
“What did you think?”
“Better her than me.”
She laughs, the goal.
“We had a Kansas thunderstorm,” I say, “lightning you wouldn’t believe, thunder knocked the tchotkes off my bookshelf.”
“It’s humid here. People say it rained outside of town. It can’t be long. I hear thunder now.”
We lose connection, or seem to (it happens most calls) but it’s not that, similar but different, electric.
“It’s raining. Can you hear it? It’s raining! It’s raining!”