Our chestnut
Without warning — two flashes. Thunder rolled across the sky, smoothly and tenderly, loving. And as if cued by a conductor’s baton, the rain came pouring down. Drops of water bounced off the iron sill with soft taps. I went to the window. Just in time to see the chestnut — our chestnut — shaken, beginning to shed everything past its bloom. Sodden flowers were pouring down with the rain onto the trash bins, onto the abandoned bicycles, onto the pathway no one had swept in a long time. But when it cleared, our chestnut stood unchanged. In full bloom, as if nothing happened. The evening grew brighter than the day.