Cloudburst

Aug 14 2017

When the rain began

— from misty drops

to sprinkled drips

to stiff insistent drizzle —

on and on I drove.

Until, at the flick of a switch

the sluice gates opened

and the heavens poured

and a river roiled the road.

When still, I didn't stop,

headlights a blur, lines submerged

the gravel verge invisible

as the wipers uselessly slapped.

And reference-free

all sensation of speed

was strictly theoretical,

as I gripped the wheel

eyes grimly fixed on the glass.

The sound was a dense metallic roar,

drowning out the rattles, the engine

the radio talk

my breathlessly racing heart.

So why did I push on

in this cacophony of rain?

Before it stopped, just as suddenly

in an eerily quiet calm,

when the sky broke

and the sun beamed

and the asphalt steamed and glistened

power-cleaned and cooled.

My windshield, squeegeed dry

by seesawing wipers,

squeak-squeak-squeak on the glass.

I was sitting pondering what to write, when the heavens opened and a windless rain inundated the house. I immediately thought about similar downpours I've driven through – a combination of stubborn persistence and youthful bravado – and thought this might make a poem.