Summer Rain

It is violent, sudden, flooding, and cool

On summer days, I can feel the water
building in the warming air;
when in late afternoon, around four o'clock,
I am stifled by the sun's glare,
walking from the light rail after work,
and the intense humidity there
is a constant promise of summer rain.

The intense sun of four is blanketed in an hour,
as clouds move in, and the weather app
gives its typical warning of isolated,
possibly strong storms.
Indoors, in air conditioning, I watch the storm clouds
gather through a window at the gym, hoping
to watch the rain, too, through the glass
and walk home cool and dry.

The Potomac River swells with summer rain,
and the side street gardens hold huge swamp oaks
and flowers in just the same places
where the streets fill with water to cover the cars' tires.

I feel it as airplane turbulance
and relief from drought
as the subject of lightning warnings and occasionally
cabins swept away,
as the subject of millions starving in the absence
of rain that doesn't come.

I feel it as the memory of childhood,
watching the weather channel for the chance of snow,
years before the chance of rain,
eventually in adulthood wielding my notifications,
waking in the night from storm alerts
excitedly playing cards by flashlight
and pretending every storm is a small crisis,
a chance to survive and bond.