Turning of a Season

The first rain comes in September, sifting down in miniature drops, a mist-like rain that is not quite seen. It is known by colors deepening along the street— dust into brown soil, weeds into plants with pea-green leaves, faded boards into orange squares and cubes and rectangles,, darkening patches on the roofs. By noon the thread-bare summer haze that has hung like a dusty cobweb across the sun for many weeks is gone, torn and shredded away by a ton of water falling in a million weight-less particles, dissolved in a slow spray that washes seeds and seed-husks, and pieces of sand, slivers, burrs, shattered pods and rotted leaves into the open ground. And all about the place, from every yard and vacant lot, the rising perfume of wet earth brings the folks to their windows, The smell of fall is a quiet and wonderful surprise, like the smell of night-blooming jasmine floating through the house.