Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

Autumn’s first storm has hit Seattle, and my commute is packed with sounds not heard since spring.

Sheets of rain hiss through parchment leaves.
Fat drops splat as they crater sidewalk puddles.
Eaves and downspouts plather their runoff into waiting pools.
Tire treads sizzle down dawn’s slick streets.
Jacket fronts zip.
Gore-tex and oilcloth rustle and wheeze.
Wind gusts flubble against hat brims and upturned collars.
People chatter light-heartedly, pleased–despite their complaints–to see the rain return.

The sun’s light slowly soaks through the grey, but people don’t hurry. There is no rain-born hustle-bustle in Seattle. We don’t dodge and weave, fair-weather commandos rushing from awning to doorway for protection from the elements. We don’t hold newspapers over our heads. The rain doesn’t surprise us, doesn’t discommode us. We walk as we always do, taking the rain on our heads today just as we took the sun in summer. Occasionally, I see a face upturned to the falling weather, a smile lifted toward our ceiling of drear.

Autumn’s first storm has hit Seattle, washing us clean.

k