Days were hot and heavy, yet we hadn’t grown tired of it, as they were the first summer days after a winter so long. They air was thick and moist, hazy and soft, sounds muffled and spirits tired by the heat, a charge humming in the air. Everyone knew to enjoy the overpowering warmth, as it would soon be released.
Winds were picking up speed and dark clouds were looming on the edge of the sky.
I could smell the rain first, then hear it, moments later I saw it, felt it. It rolled in like a wave, but not heavy. A soft summer rain.
Unlike the rains in late autumn months, the summer rains are a welcome sight. A summer rain after a hot, heavy and humid day makes your inner child awaken, lift her face up to the sky, with arms wide open. If one lets go of restrain, one might just twirl around 360 degrees, while sticking out their tongue.
You don’t run from the summer rain. You let it grace your sweaty skin, kissed by the sun, dampen your messy hair and let it run down from the tip of your nose. You hope it rains just the perfect amount to cool the air by a few degrees, water the grass and plants to help them grow, wash off the dust gathered in the surface off the picnic table.
And so it rains. But for how long.
Per popular request (by all of two people), I’m doing more pretentious artsy freewriting.
