On the Wing

“Water, water every where,
Nor any drop to drink.”
—Coleridge

Posted on October 30

A single droplet of water makes little sound. A cloudburst, however, makes a symphony. As I watch the rain falling from the Maple Street Bridge, I bask in the concert building around me. I stand under the cover of a large walnut tree and feel at once safe and terrified that it might collapse under the storm. From this location, I can see the creek below, a tributary to the Coquina. It churns like a vengeful river god. The flotsam and jetsam collect on the bloated banks: severed branches, aluminum cans, and plastic bags. As I watch these pieces cling to the bank, I can’t help thinking that these seemingly insignificant objects of modernity will define us. Is this the Plastic Age?

Where do butterflies go when it rains? Their delicate wings, constructed of veins and scales, can’t withstand the penetrating raindrop as it propels downward. Their wings can’t fly waterlogged. They are in hiding under leaves, branches, shrubs, and bushes. I wonder where other living things like raccoons, beavers, and skunks are hiding. Are they clinging to grasses and trees? Have they washed away? Or did they already evacuate on their own ark? It is afternoon but already getting dark. The wind is blustering, whispering worrisome things in my ear. The darkness creeps in now, and I feel that this storm will never end.

The rain falls in sheets, and sometimes it comes at me sideways, drenching my legs. If you watch closely, the millions of droplets make divots in the creek’s surface, even as it rushes past. The last light of the day highlights the falling water, giving it a milky sheen, somehow hopeful and blinding.

This rain has made the whole town of Cobalt sad. So many people mope about, disconnected and disinterested, as though the clouds shield them from the excitement. I wonder why the rain induces sadness. Are we solar powered? Perhaps it is due to a remnant from our evolutionary past and not being able to hunt or frolic about during a downpour. Perhaps we are inherently sad creatures, sensitive and partial to the opposite of what we have. I am not certain.

When I close my eyes, I hear a choir building. The leaves shake as the water droplets ricochet against everything like a mad weapon. It roars like an animal closing in on its prey. I take a step out from under the cover of the tree and open my arms wide to the rain, letting it take me as its own. There is something liberating about giving in completely.

After everything we make—the houses, roads, and walls we build—she still manages us. We can build a tall fence, but the rain still falls. We can roll up our windows and brace ourselves, but the roads are still slick. The world we’ve created, full of creature comforts, warmth, light, and food, is never as strong as her. That’s a fact. There are things we can control and things that were never in our hands in the first place. It’s hardest to define that line. To make it clear and come to terms with it.

1 COMMENT

True. I wonder, though, if we can work together? Maybe instead of working against Mother Nature? —BF Girl NY