Rain Before Breakfast

The first drop lands on the toe of my shoe.

I have one foot on the porch step when the next one darkens the wood beside it. By the time I look up, rain is pattering through the leaves.

I step back under the roof.

My shoes are tied. My keys are in my pocket. I stand there for a moment, prepared for everything except sitting down.

“I don’t feel anxiety. What I feel is readiness.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, watching the sidewalk turn dark.

Beside the door is a chair.

I turn it toward the yard and sit.

The seat is dry. I stretch my legs and rest my heels on the boards. My hands settle on my thighs.

“I feel no pain and no discomfort.”

The gutter starts with a ticking sound, then begins to run. Water splashes into the gravel below the downspout. The smell of damp soil reaches me from the pots beside the steps.

I take a slow breath.

On the nearest plant, water gathers at the pointed end of a leaf. The drop grows, and the leaf dips beneath its weight.

For a moment, it hangs there.

Then the drop falls. The leaf springs back.

I smile. Another bead of water is already making its way toward the tip.

“We don’t resist, we relax.”

I lean back. The chair gives a small creak.

A few drops blow beneath the porch roof and land near my shoes. I watch the dark spots spread into the wood.

I take my keys out of my pocket and set them on the arm of the chair.

For a while, the whole yard moves with the rain. The leaves nod. Water spills over the rim of a flowerpot. Beyond the railing, the grass bends beneath the shower.

Then the patter on the roof begins to soften.

I can hear separate drops falling from the gutter again. Somewhere beyond the yard, a car door closes. Tires hiss along the wet street.

“Clear mind, strong heart.”

The rain has nearly stopped. I could leave now.

At the tip of the leaf, another drop is gathering.

I stay to watch it fall.