The rain patters and spatters the roof, the street, the puddles. Tiny rivers run down the street. The warm wind ruffles umbrellas, rattles bicycles. Trees sigh and stretch and soak. The grass uncurls its roots and revels in the moisture. Dormant plants underground swell with water, and prepare to explode skyward, nourished and refreshed, when the sun returns.
It’s what the Navajo call a female rain: the gentle, deep soaking, life-giving, nurturing rain. I can almost hear the earth awakening beneath it as it falls.