The Evening

In the calm before the thunder and lightning came the drops, hanging in the air. Neither mist nor fog, just wet and heavy. The sidewalks were tunnels now and sound was muffled, everything hot and sticky. Then distant drums interrupted the darkness - a joyful reverberation of percussion coming from Fulton Avenue and bouncing along the brownstones. 

I stood in the light from the take-out, listening, eating my slice off a thin paper plate. 

Some people were going somewhere - couples, dog walkers - but most sat still in shadows on their stairs or front walls. At a few doors, families were out talking, laughing, with chairs sprawling over the sidewalks so that my quick passing could be felt an intrusion. The timing was good however, for on my way back the sky began to answer the drummers, first with a flash, then with a sound bigger than any drum could ever make.

Once back the drops began their coordinated frenzy. Our skylight sounded like these might be her last moments, but she was still holding, so the water slammed at the windows instead, trying any angle to drench new territory. 

And here in this deluge, a new rhythm announces itself and another movement of my Missa Brevis begins.