Any Minute

By Kelly Peterson

I open my window to the soggy air
and think about closing it--because of the air conditioning.
The breeze picks up and the trees rustle in their anxiety.
I notice the parched, yellow grass
and get a little anxious, too.

I bend down to the opening of the window I couldn't bear
to close,
and the sky is a gray blanket, veiling distant rumbles of heat
thunder.
And for one second
it smells like summer when I was
nine by the pool watching lifeguards,
unmanning their stations, as we
sit by the fence and play with our
three quarters thinking "Maybe
I'll buy me a Sno Cone while I wait
for the rain to pass."

The trees and the wind get louder
and the air is so dense you feel like you'll drown if you
breathe in too fast.
Finally, like that stupid finger flicking pencil game, it snaps.
The heaviness breaks as real thunder cracks, twice,
and the sky flashes, once,
and I think how it's time to close the window,
since it's going to rain.

Any minute now.

Any minute.