Sigur Ros, Se Lest / by laurel

Today it rained.

The sky cracked open last night, incised by lightning. Unable to suture itself in time, the green-gray oblivion bled for the better part of twenty four hours. This morning I navigated from point A to point B and witnessed the first rain of the season. I sputtered down leafy green corridors, swallowed alive by trees, devoured and digested into neighborhoods of quiet contemplation.
Then there was nothing. Everything in the world ceased to exist the way it had before. In the event of this wet phenomenon, life had to rearrange itself and hadn’t the wherewithal to accomplish this task before I witnessed its utter distress. There weren’t other cars, or even other houses. There was only the sound of dripping water and the sight of trees whose branches were drooping under the weight of their color and saturation.
If I could drink it in, I would, but the rain drops made music on my windshield and the trees were intoxicated and stumbling into the street, their leaves and branches drooping under the weight of a million tiny droplets; falling and splashing and dripping and sliding.
The entire world was taking place before me: a new rhythm and a new sound. Time ticked by to the command of rain drops—falling chaos from the sky. There was so much beauty, so much wonder, I could hardly breathe. It was enough to exist and feel that odd humidity mixed with precipitation—moisture in different forms, coexisting peacefully.
The city was finally cleansed of an entire season’s indifference. Of course, the rain had nowhere to go (to the chagrin of the sprinklers, who now have to share the cement with the rain). So it danced, it rose up from everywhere. It celebrated the event of falling, of spattering in a million directions, of reassigning itself in the form of new globules, of invading every crack and crevice in sight. It was pure magic.