After the rain, the silence hangs like mist in the air. The smell of petrichor, of parched earth finally sated, of your strawberry shampoo as you shake out your head, laughing at how your mother will purse her lips, her mouth turning bitter, telling you how you’re too old to be doing this. Already, our wet clothes too cold, clinging to our shivering limbs as we scrabble for patches of nascent sunlight, blossoming through a corona of clouds. Your arms alight with goosebumps, each translucent hair trembling, like shoots just emerging from the earth.

Wind shakes rain from trees
Droplets catching in your lashes
Like a spiderweb