Spring Rain in the Park

By Peter Bowden
The rain came lightly in the morning. It touched the tops of the oaks and slipped down through the dogwoods without sound. On the sidewalks, the drops made small dark spots on the concrete, and the brick homes stood still, unbothered, with their broad porches and narrow windows. A man with a hat walked his dog down Cherokee Avenue, and the dog sniffed the grass wet with rain and looked up once, then went back to sniffing. There were azaleas blooming in front of the old houses, and the pansies were bent slightly under the weight of the water. The roses were not blooming yet. A child’s red bicycle leaned against a wrought iron fence. In the park, the swings moved slightly, not from the wind, but from the water collecting and sliding down the chains. A woman in a yellow coat jogged along the path, her shoes making a steady rhythm on the wet pavement. She did not look up. The rain would not last. It never did in the spring. It came like this—light, soft, passing through the trees like breath—and then it would be gone. The ground would hold it a while, and the garden beds would drink it, and by noon the sky would be pale blue again, and the world would go on. The man and the dog went home. The woman finished her run. The flowers, heavy with water, stood up straighter.

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