Before the Storm

The sky holds its breath, bruised violet, waiting. Pigeons scatter from their perches as if they remember what's coming, wings beating against the thick air.

Below, the city sleeps through the afternoon— traffic lights blinking red then green at empty intersections, each pulse a heartbeat we've stopped listening for.

I think of water gathering, molecules assembling in clouds, preparing their descent. There is violence in such waiting, thunder trapped in the throat.

The first drop arrives alone, a courier, a messenger. It lands on my palm and dissolves— salt becoming sky again, the great return.