Sweet Mountain Rain

Sweet Mountain Rain
by Kurt Z


In the shadow of the ancient Man, where the mountain shower descended like a mischievous sprite's laughter, I trudged onward, my Brazilian tarp hat—a weathered relic from a forgotten Rio market—clinging stubbornly to my brow. Rain dripped off it in rhythmic Morse code, each plink a reminder of storms I’ve outrun too many times, but not today!. A pause by the babbling brook that flanked the trail, its waters gossiping secrets to the mossy stones, frothy with the thrill of unchecked freedom. "Why flee what refreshes?" the brook seemed to whisper?”. Indeed why run from something completely harmless yet so invigorating—a downpour that stripped away pretenses, leaving you raw and alive, like a secret you'd confessed to the wind.


High above, a pair of peregrine falcon sliced the veil of mist with effortless disdain, its wings carving stoic arcs against the gray. It didn't bother with the squall; to the falcon, the mountain shower was merely a sweet shower between hunts, a brief interlude before the next stoop into oblivion.  So why not me? I envy that nonchalance, watching them vanished into the roiling clouds, shadows among shadows. The rain, undeterred, pattered on, inviting surrender rather than sprint. Perhaps the real cleverness lay not in evasion, but in dancing through the deluge—hat askew, brookside echoes urging me to embrace the harmless thrill that made a pulse sing like that distant, diving raptor.