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Vardry Spencer

Walking in the Rain

It's raining now. I am wrapped in its warm, shimmering
embrace. The clouds are flowing, satin pillows of gray
and fading purple. Tall trees look on, their rough bark
mellowed by a curtain of mist. The deep, green grass is
highlighted with drops of crystal, every blade swaying
with a life of it's own yet remaining one: a silent symphony
of hypnotic movement.

A lonely blue bird dips and levels, then glides into the
waiting limbs of a graceful oak and disappears into the
shelter of her shadow. Off in the distance the hills lean
against the fading horizon, as if lulled to sleep by some
invisible, calming whisper.

A woman passes by. I look at her: Such beauty--
dark eyes with a sculpted, oval face. Wet hair
clinging to her temple; rows of beaded rain flowing
down her cheeks then meeting at that delicate chin and
falling in slow motion to the ground. Her dress clings
to her body, outlining perfect, upturned breasts. She
moves on by and fades off into the distance, a ghost
now vanished in the haze.

It is a wonderland of mystery with few colors. Yet
all the hues of gray give a calming feeling, off-setting
the brilliance, creating a strange surreal look, the look
of reality on the verge of emerging. I can barely hear
the noise of the city. It creeps through but doesn't intrude,
like a little child sneaking on the bed at night and laying her
head on her mother's shoulder.

I can hear the quiet, rolling sound of tympanis beginning,
as if announcing the arrival of a soft Brahms concerto: Not
in the least threatening but shy, tenuous, hesitant, like a young
boy or girl hovering at the edge of maturity. Small lights
flicker on and off as in a small child's dream where sugar
coated shapes of blue and green and orange move in and
out of shadows, playing hide and seek.

I walk on silently, enthralled, thankful for this glorious
dream. I see my house in the distance and approach it
with a sigh. Looking back briefly, a faint smile appears
on my face. It is all so mystical yet real, like listening to
Coltrane with the volume turned down and the lights low
while making slow love to the one you adore, looking
deeply in her eyes and getting lost in them as you glide off
somewhere into the inner regions of quiet ecstasy.