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Splat! Splat! Splint! Outside my window, water droplets animate lilac leaves lifted in supplication like raised palms before their god. Too early have scorching suns aged the longed-for-greening of shrubs and trees in our neighborhood. Jets of sprinklers spew water over distressed lawns, and flowerbeds peak with riotous colors.

Splat! Splat! The moistening continues, albeit more slowly. Hesitant breezes spoof droplets, careening into larger ones emptying into gutters like bobsleds on iced tracks. A juvenile squirrel skitters up the stippled trunk of the sweet gum and disappears in thick foliage.

Then, the watering stops, the oatmeal sky brightens, and breezes muffle their meanderings. Only solitary droplets remain upon the leaves. Sidewalks dry.

No drencher this morning, no spring-step mists, no soaker-hose-rain to massage clods of dirt—just Splat! Splat!—the ground only tattooed with dark swirls.

Such dryness nudges my psyche, bereft of dreams for several days. Deprived of my compass, I list about seeking this or that, in hopes one will reveal its élan and reconnect me with significant moorings.

So my dryness continues … until the next dream.

 

 

 

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