Rainstorm
I was in a rainstorm recently. The temperature was mild, so I persisted in my walk beside the gorge till I was a mile or two from home. As the drops grew larger and more dense, my body became wet and alert. Lightning struck, along with cracks of thunder.
My dog Flora, who usually roams far and wide, walked at my heels, glancing constantly at my features, trying to guess why we were out in such a downpour. I didn’t know, so I didn’t answer her. I just kept walking.
The rain grew heavier, and soon there was no more dryness left on our bodies. Dripping from nose to tail, her white and black coat looked several pounds thinner. No doubt my own frame, winnowed to the small amount of meat that keeps me moving, also appeared thin as my shirt and pants clung to my skin.
Wet. Warm in the movement, tending the fear of growing cold. I smiled. A thunderclap announced another strike. I don’t know why I enjoy this.
Flora was less certain. She walked inside of my own footsteps, such that I had to constantly ask her with a cuff or a growl to fall behind or beside me. The grit of our footsteps smeared into each other’s bodies. Sensing my frustration, she gave me space, but quickly forgot herself and trotted once more at my heels, her neck beside or between my legs.
She was scared. Perhaps the storm, but more likely me. Why would I persist? It wasn’t wise. The open range offered little shelter, but she and I both knew the trees and crevices. Why not seek them, like the bighorns and goats?
It’s a good question, Flora. My shoes, saturated to the sock, were hard to keep on. I don’t tie them tight, and they’re too large for me anyway. Our footsteps sank into the saturated ground, then filled in our absence. Small rivulets of rose-colored water trickled over brown earth, every blade of grass a different shade of green.
The electricity of the moment kept slapping the earth, with increasing intensity and frequency. At first the distance felt safe, but soon the sounds of the phenomena were in step with the visions, meaning the blows were landing close.
There is a clarity of sound from a nearby stick of lightning, one that far exceeds the base tones and garbled rumbling of distant thunder. With razor sharpness and granular precision, the sound inveighs like the sizzle and pop of carbonated drinks. So we turned.
It was enough. The needle of my courage turned to fear. Lower. I need to get lower. Flora sensed the shift even before I looked to her face. She was grateful for that split second look into her eyes.
Lowering our bodies meant climbing into the earth, canyons like cracks in the skin of the mesa. Down. In. We trailed over boulders, rolled smooth from millions of rains like these. A small stream, not more than a hand wide, traveled over them. Hours later, it would slowly increase – a foot, an arm, the width of a leap – when the earth drains and the Rio Grande Gorge becomes thousands of waterfalls.
Like Flora, I resumed the four-legged approach of my ancestors. Everything was slick. The surfaces were hard, and often separated by distances that make injuries severe. Bones crack.
Down. We pursued our safety like water pursues the ocean. Crack! Boom! Still warm from the movement, I looked for an overhanging rock. As soon as we stopped moving, we would cool down and the pounding rain would drive out any heat we managed to keep within. No roof, no shelter would keep us dry, but the thin layer of moisture on our bodies would warm with the heat of our blood if we could keep it from constantly being shed.
There are millions of cavities like this in the gorge. Thousands of ancient shelters. I took myself to one, and Flora wedged in beside me. Wet. Warm. She draped her head over my shoulder, cheek to cheek. Water carrying light cascaded over the front of the stone like a fountain in Paris.
After several minutes Flora lay down, belly flat to the earth. She no longer had questions for me. I wrapped myself in the posture befitting my thin frame, heels on the earth, knees to chest, arms and face pressed with gratitude against the warmth of my own skin. I can teeter on my ankles like this, a wobbly egg, for hours.
This is where you’ll find me when I die. Not my body. Not my soul. These things will drain away like rain over stone. You’ll find me in the wet posture of your own material. The sound and color of rain.
Flora and I sat here for forty-five minutes. Breathing. Smiling. Storms like these usually pass within minutes in the desert, but this one sat over our heads with an equanimity unrivaled in the atmosphere. I watched the clouds for movement. I listened to ancient sounds.
The rain did not let up, and so I decided at some point to count the seconds between electric strikes. It took a very long time to get past fifteen. Then thirty. Then forty-five. When I got to sixty, a patient sixty, I turned to Flora. She was already up.