I’m not sure where we were headed, but we were on a mission. It was clear to both of us that we needed to get somewhere, despite our sore feet and sore backs.
“Storm Cloud.”
“I see it,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “We should head back under the trees.”
“We’ll never make it in time.”
We both stopped, as the dark grey cloud moved in and took up the whole blue sky. There was nothing left to do but watch.
It was alive in its swirling, full of meaning and purpose, showing off its thousands of greys. The open meadow darkened, which was unsettling, as if someone on the edge of the glade had dimmed the lights without telling us.
“It’s here.”
With it, the rain dropped on our upturned faces, a message conveyed and received. Our clothes speckled into wetness, our hair matted down, dripping droplets into our eyes and mouths and down our backs.
No longer going in but now fully in, we raised our arms and turned up our palms, half in reverence, half in defeat, standing in a thousand greys. Grey ourselves.
All at once, the change was complete, as if a parallel world, tired of waiting, took its turn.
The cloud kept moving, impartial and proud. We turned our heads as it passed over us like a leviathon, everything around it blurred and penitent.
And as quickly as it came in, it left, on its own terms, an intruder that changed its mind, allowing the blue sky to show again.
Our faces felt no more rain, the meadow lightened; greens and blues returned without apology.
We looked at each other, as still as the stones, as wet as the grass, and decided without words but with renewed purpose and belief, that we should walk again.