cool breeze

It's still July, I remind myself as I sit in the park getting goosebumps.  A storm is blowing in over our quilt & books, and those who came for the free concert are looking about them, considering.

A man stands at the end of parked cars, hands lifted toward the setting sun, shoes on the grass beside him.  He prays, seeing more than we can.

The clouds lift till we think we're in the clear ... then heavy drops begin to dot our legs.

We fold the blanket and retreat, rolling windows against the rain.  White-haired women raise lawn chairs overhead, folded in lieu of umbrellas as they walk back to their neighboring homes.  The a cappella choir arrange themselves under a pavilion and carry on.  A remnant fills the picnic tables; some stand partly in the rain to hear the hymns.  The singers smile.

"Join in," the director gestures when they start Amazing Grace, and people do, in four-part harmony, effortless.  Mom with tiny daughter.  Young family.  Man with a cane.  Middle-aged couples.  Us.

After another song or two, we leave.  Drive through the country, stop for an ice cream cone with all the locals, the cloudburst over.

It's hot July, but a breeze is blowing through.