It is one of those nights in Happy Valley, Pennsylvania. The rains arrived at the Appalachians shortly after noon. I was on video call with my parents, and constantly being pulled to steal a glance, see the beautiful downpour, the tango of the twigs, bristle of the leaves, just outside my window. It’s past eleven now, on a saturday night. My neighbors across the street still have their lights turned on, as have I. Somewhere, the HVAC motor keeps maintaining a low hum, occasionally accompanied by the sound of cars passing by. A gentle breeze meets the oak in front of my door.
‘Does one want to know where I live?’
The breeze and I are locked in a gaze. My windows are open. The small lucky bamboo plant on my desk is excited to feel an old friend in his arms after a long time.
‘Even the moon has come and gone now, since it last rained’, the fried up tips of the long leaves complained. But they are happy now.
‘When will it rain again?’