on the quiet
I could hear the swing singing in the back of forth of little boys, and I was bent at the squash blossoms, letting the itchy leaf rub my knees, counting the yellow knobs pushing out from the stems. I think on what good butter is with squash, how pleasing it is to feel the sun beat down on air conditioned skin, how honest it is for sweat to bead.
“How long will we be outside? How long can we play?” – a sweet sound through yard, a yell through blinding sun over freshly cut clover. They yell with the sound of bush-hog in the field and bumble bees at the honeysuckle.
And before I speak, we hear it thunder like a low bass drum, and it rumbles on, and their faces reflect disappointment.
A naptime later, the dirt gulped the rain and then held it in full cups. The fish pond ran over. The leak in the kitchen dripped. The weather had said nothing of rain – only clouds – and from the bright blue sky, no clouds, a flick of heat lightening opened the sky like a pouring bucket.
I feel full of God secrets, full up to the edge of my lips of expectations toward the one who knows what we are in secret.
The feeling of hush is good – that cool awakening after a downpour – all drenched and quiet.