The Rainy Season by Eduardo Ballestero

The Rainy Season

Before you go, know

that there are only two seasons.

If it’s the rainy one, prepare for days of it,

for rain from waking

until you close your eyes,

for a fine mist that weighs down your bedsheets,

for the sound of rain drops striking the roof,

for walls to start entering your dreams,

for muddy potholes and drenched spillways by sidewalks,

for streams of water cascading from roofs

like water poured from a pot,

for fog that moves through the low-lying parts

of each village like a spectre,

for thunder clap, after thunder clap, after

days driving past small mudslides on the road,

wondering if it’ll ever let up until

at last, you notice it’s gone,

and you can step outside to see the moon

or sun emerge from behind a fading storm cloud

for long enough to let you see the cow field across the road,

or the houses on the other side of the valley,

or the shape of the mountains on the horizon,

etching itself into memory.