Rain

                                               

Have you ever sat under a tin roof when it rained in the tropics?

There is nothing like it.

     Nothing.

The rain is

     Deafening

          Pounding

               Vibrating

                    Inundating

                        Overpowering

                             A little scary (at times)

On our tin roof.

Add a flash of lightning, the crash of thunder,

because, well,

it is not loud enough already.

Last night, I screamed a bedtime book directly into my children's ears.

They snuggled up close,

And yet, they could hardly hear the words.

I was hoarse by the end.

At least six inches fell overnight, maybe eight.

Who measures here? And why?

There is no newspaper, no meteorologist, no rain gauge.

Just rain, rain,

And more rain.

And by the morning, the rain has ceased.

Puddles remain, but surprisingly few.

Hundreds, no thousands, of carcasses of winged ants that fly with a frenzy as the rain comes pelting down

And then die in my kitchen.

It is as though the rain called them, but really it is the light

That called.

The rain and the light, the light and the rain.

They dance.

Did I mention it is the rainy season?