The rain’s so quiet I don’t hear it fall.
I smell it. The beautiful scent of ozone.

Every time it rains, the sky releases
some modicum of tension,

but like the rest of us, it’s never free.
When lightening cracks the horizon,

we catch a glimpse of what’s behind it,
but it’s too intense, too bright, so we

close our eyes and pretend that
the crooked wounds the lightening

cuts will be healed smooth, no scars.
I may say I like to run out in the rain,

but I’m lying. Like most, my instinct
guides me away from the storm, into

any doorway, under any tree or awning.
Rain is so insistent. It’s chaos, really,

and that terrifies me.
It’s hard for any storm to creep up

on you, but it’s possible. Anything is,
given time, given opportunity and

the perfect combination of chemicals
and circumstance. Look at the sky and

it’s blue. Turn away. Look back and
it’s gray, black, green; a sickish hue

that signals: Nothing good can come of this.
You should seek shelter immediately.

—–

William Reichard is a writer, editor, and educator. His sixth poetry collection, The Night Horse: New and Selected Poems, was published by Bright Horse Books in 2018. He lives with his spouse, writer James Cihlar, in Saint Paul, MN, where it is always cold.