Whistles

 Rain came down at a slant, splashing down to the pavement in great rivulets that made parched July concrete into a wet, well nourished mess. A thousand little Amazons of rainwater sloughed and slashed and split over the road, flooded the sidewalk, lapped in all the little places that might take their deluge. Amber streetlights made everything sheen with soft, glittering orange. 

I sat on the steps beneath the overhang bathed in warm lantern light. Smelling wet enriched earth. Whistling to myself. I’m not much of a musician, and my whistling is dreadful, monotone and bland. I sound like a noisy, injured bird. But the rain didn’t mind, feeding summer-hungry leaves as it drenched and splashed. I was absentminded. 

Then, I whistled a note, and another, it rose up and down without a hint of shrillness. I repeated my miraculous innovation, ignorant and unaware of this little concerto I’d sprung, watching the lightning carve its way between black cloud canyons. 

And then, came the realization, the triumph of my whistling. I laughed, grinning, repeating the undulation of notes. Over and over I made them rise, then fall only to rise again, until the little rain-free alcove I’d claimed seemed to hum with intimate music. 

All the while, the rain came down, carrying the weight of the day into the drain.