Rain.

I can hear the rain pounding on the leaves a mile or two away, but it isn't here yet.

I can see the clouds, the confusion of precipitation bundled together, pushing on the verge of release, rolling, spilling towards my mountaintop.

It is like a dull roar, and a whisper all the same.

The drops of wet plop on the trees just over the ridge, for moments, and then recede, as though the clouds have realized we don't need them here. And so I hear the pounding roll away, but staying steady, beating the earth with its food, its drink. The leaves sway in gratitude and I hear the thunder roll its acknowledgment.