Evening Rain in Summer

I’m spending a typical Sunday evening at Starbucks in Boulder as the dark heavy rain clouds roll in over the mountain behind me. Looking over my shoulder out of the large glass window the trees lining the streets are having their leaves pressed to the east by the wind. The sky is heavy gun metal gray and pocketed like a quilt and is spitting thick sheets of rain at an angle.

The tapping on the pane behind me is sporadically rhythmic. The sun shines over my left shoulder, illuminating the thick drops. The flatirons, normally visible from this vantage point, are silhouettes shrouded by misty gray curtain of clouds. I feel like a voyeur.

Traffic zips down the street only slightly bothered by the change in road conditions. The pebbles, rocks, and road glistening and slippery wet reflect the light. Each time I look to the trees along the street the leaves are all shimmying in a different direction as the wind seems to sort them out.

And as quickly as it all began, it has come to an end and the sun, winning the struggle, pushes the thick cover down from the foothills and onto the plains, revealing a rainbow.