northeast monsoons
they are coming now, with disarming regularity. they finish day's peak heat, just after two I expect them. Often without warning, though occasionally there's a flash or crack from above, and they come. And you're drenched.
It rushes down, hard, big drops on your head, your roof, pelting you like a narrow waterfall running down a canyone. It almost hurts. I watch them, today, from in here; watch them, amazed every time at their punctuality, these monsoon rains. Like a cat who knows exactly when dinner is, and never wears a watch. These rains know their business so well its way beyond knowledge. How limited are we, with our information and structures, in comparison. They are so precisely executed we should plan our days, our seasons, our lives around them. We used to.
And as I sweep, mop the dust from the floors, watching it hang in the air for a few minutes, then settles and I sweep again, I watch the rains. They are doing outside what I am doing in here. They are doing it infinitely better.
I had forgotten their precision, I had forgotten so much about the tropics. It comes back slow and fast, like some treasure you find, hidden as a kid, lost for what you thought was forever and found when you grew up and moved out, packing just before they tear down your house and even when it's gone, you're left with your treasure, dusty and old, but precious because it gives you back, in time, something you were sure you'd lost.
These rains make me want to tear the roof off this house and let their waters flood in, wash out all the dust and dirt, clean my sweat and cool my body, that pants from the slightest movement.
Quickly as they come they're gone and I'm alone with my broom, and the sky is clear and it's hotter than before, now, because they're are no clouds. And somewhere in the distance the thunder rolls, and I know they'll be back for me tomorrow.