A Matter of Mountain Rain

The smell permeated the air hours before it could be seen or even heard. The scent grew in strength throughout the day, and the anticipation of what was coming caused excitement to surge through my veins. My spine tingled. It was coming. The rush started in the distance, echoing off of the mountain walls, echo growing louder, an Indian’s rain stick had come to life. The torrent was rapidly moving towards me, for a moment, one very brief moment I saw the wall of pouring water. Nothing separated it from the sky. In that moment fear tugged at my heart, rushed to my feet; but quickly receded, joy replaced it as the rain touched my skin. Pure ecstasy, that’s what it was, pure, unhindered, ecstasy, a result of mountain rain.

The water rushed into my open mouth, childhood songs about lemon drops and gumdrops came to mind and I smiled. The water seeped into my skin. It was in me, the torrent of rain coursed through me, strengthening my body, weakening my knees. Joy was in my face, Song was in my heart, Dance was in my feet, all the emotions rushed together, overflowing into beautiful terraces of laughter. I gave into Dance, arms outspread, face to the sky, with eyes softly shut, and my feet moved. I didn’t know the dance, the rain led me, it guided my steps, gently but firmly, the rain led, I followed. And it was beautiful.

As the dance finished I looked around me, arms slowly lowered to my sides, rain still flowing freely over me, tingling my senses, raising the gooseflesh on my arms. The sky was beauty, solid, brilliant, deep gray. The aspens’ multi-colored leaves gave compliment; the high-rising mountains gave accent.

It was the last rain of the season. Soon the last season would be upon us, the one that never seemed to end. It would bring the final rain, the first snow. Fall would be over; the rains wouldn’t come again for another six months at least. I was taken out of the rain.
Everything was powdered white, with bedroom window open I could smell the next storm coming. The smell resembled that of the rain, but it dull. The flurries started, it was stark, the scent still tingled my senses and I would wake at any hour to sit in the ledge of my screened open window, breathing in its briskness. Its smell refreshed my senses and made me eager to begin my day, but I didn’t dance. It wasn’t exhilarating, it didn’t seep into every part of me, and it would never lead me in a dance, though I sometimes attempted to coax it to. Its little stars of frozen water would flat by my eyes, tickle my cheek, and rest on my sleeve. When the stars stuck together as they fell, some would get caught in my lashes, others would pile high in my hand. When they clumped together they lived longer. They were beautiful, them, in all their purity, would deem everything around them as pure. Snow’s beauty is easy on the eyes, things transform, barren trees become full once more, but they still remain dead. Nature doesn’t even dance with the snow, snow may bestow beauty, but it won’t start an epic dance; unlike rain.

When it rained even the sky sang, it’s deep full voice would shake the mountains, and in times of its silence it would add a flash of brilliance, accenting the dancers’ movements and giving light to the rain. It’s mountain rain; its fragrance heightens all of nature’s senses. It teaches its dance to any willing to let it lead, and it permeates the heart of any who join it underneath the glowing gray skies. It’s mountain rain, just wait for it, it’ll come.