be patient; it will come

For many days now, the skies have extended an apparent promise. The clouds blow in, they hover.  Yellow slashes the far horizon.  There is thunder.  I stand at the window and wait, urging the weather on, but the weather has a mind of its own, and the darkness dissipates, and it is heat again outside, charred grass, trees losing their leaves, the glads rail thin on their dessicated stalks.

This morning I lay on the couch just after five, reading the final pages of a very long book for review.  Night darkness yielded to weather darkness.  There was a catch in the sky's throat.  A breeze riffled the skirt of the deck umbrella.  And then:  rain.  I held my breath, didn't stir.

It was nearly silent.  It was brief.  The growing things bowed.

Sometimes it is best not to stand up tall at the window, asking for things, imploring.

Sometimes we have to believe:  it will come.