I walked back through the empty streets tonight after work.
I felt alone, as usual, but not as lonely as usual.
The moisture in the air gave a halo to the lights
and I breathed in the rain drenched night
and the air stuck in my chest and bathed my lips.
Before I entered my apartment, I paused:
The quiet of the night thrilled me for a passing moment.
It's a night Shakespeare would have written for his fairies.
I opened my senses to the universe:
The sound of a distant train,
leaves rustling,
droplets falling in a "Ping! Ping! Splat!",
the taste of a cool May night,
the moisture covering my face like sweat,
the sight of a street lamp casting a glow that lovers might have run off into the night to avoid...
The smell of clean air:
just washed cool after several days of rain
...and the dew...
falling...
falling.
I looked up at the large Maple tree in front of my doorway
and allowed the "Pings! and Splats!" of the vestiges of the rain from the day
to fall on my face
touching me.
I felt so attuned.
So. Aware.
And to make the moment perfect,
I willed myself to cry...
But
Didn't.
Because sometimes, the night and the senses and the mere truth of being in a moment:
might not have to move me to tears.
So I let the night continue without adding my dew to the "Splats!"
and I went up to my apartment to sleep.