sometimes you are supposed to go for a walk in the rain

Sometimes you are supposed to go for a walk in the rain wearing a rain jacket that doesn’t work and soaks up all the raindrops and gets your clothes wet underneath.

Sometimes you are supposed to go for a walk in the rain and walk along the stream that’s flooding and watch the frogs leap away from your step, flinging their bodies into the muddy water. You take shelter under an oak tree, and then a sycamore, and then another oak whose leaves shed most of the rain before it reaches you. You watch water rush over rock ledges and pour into new openings and bend over blades of grass in its current.

Sometimes you are supposed to go for a walk in the rain to witness the silence, no sounds but pitter and patter and rushing and dripping. The green frog calls out a deep croak like a rubber band. In the trees, the stream drains to a gentle trickle. The whine of the black fly sounds distant and then close. The forest is rich and dark and glistening like a fairytale.

Sometimes you are supposed to go for a walk in the rain and let the tall, wet grass paint your bare legs with water and loose seeds. You bend down to brush imaginary bugs off of your skin. It’s unpleasant but undeniably it is here and now. Willow, blue vervain, dogwood, joe-pye-weed, black elderberry, meadow-rue are all intermingled along the streambank with vivid colors that are even more saturated in the rain. Your toes collect slugs and pebbles and the ground squishes in beneath your feet.

Sometimes you are supposed to go for a walk in the rain to wonder whether anyone knows who you are. The maple trees stand tall and say they do. The cohosh offers up its berries to the sky. Bloodroot spreads its leaves like a wide palm. The musclewood bends over the creek like a blanket. Red efts lay out on beds of bright green moss. You are the only creature wondering.

Sometimes you are supposed to go for a walk in the rain to let something stir inside of you like a washing machine. Worldly sensations open the doors to child-like curiosity. You see the world slowed and magnified. The green frog calls out a deep croak like a rubber band. In the trees, the stream drains to a slow trickle.