Three weeks of dryness and the rain is now approaching.
On the back porch under the tin awning, I sit on the swing and face you.
You've been watching the field ahead, awaiting the oncoming storm.
We spot the rain as it approaches from across the field.
A flowing wave of dying weeds dance towards us,
set in motion and livened by the rain as it quickly approaches.
You turn my way as a few initial drops land on the awning, loud and inciting.
The silence of the drought is broken by thousands of raindrops landing continuously against the tin.
For the first time in what seems like years, you turn my way and speak.
With eyes as intent as the downpour, I see your lips moving, your voice muted by the rain.
The dry ground is now wet.
You turn, once more, towards the field.
Together, we watch in silence.
Saying nothing.
Saying everything.