The rain comes in sheets and waves; I hear it approach before it arrives, rushing through the trees.
The night lights up around me between cracks of thunder that rumbles as the rain comes drenches, the drops hard and cold on my open palms. I close my eyes and feel the drops sink in.
The rain beating down on the wooden steps vibrates in my bones, strumming a wild tune; I sit on the steps where grandpa watched the tomato plants grow.
The moss on the slippery wood under my feet, water rushing – rain and creek.
The smell of the fresh rain on the old damp piers that slowly molder year after year and steam in the summer heat, sticky, heavy, and soupy – but then sighs with relief under the cool downpour. The piers where we napped, crabbed, and day-dreamed. The piers we built and repaired under the summer sun.
The fig trees that great-great-grandma brought from Italy that still come back even though the new owners cut them down every year. I close my eyes and can an almost feel the fuzzy skin and warm summer sun tasting the textured, silky, sweet insides that you bite into after plucking from the stem that foams white upon breaking – sticky that lingers.
I dance along the edge of the bulkhead as the water rises on both sides, the shoreline flooding under the stormy night sky. The patterns of the raindrops on the currents rippling and smooth in the faint light of the dock lights.
The water rushes down the old steps with the pipe railing where the carved wooden water god sleeps in the overgrowth; a waterfall among the vines and ivy that slowly creep.
The creek-muck deep in the warm dark water, silky and smooth. Take the plunge.