Our chestnut
Without warning — two flashes. Thunder rolled across the sky, smooth and tender, lovingly. And as if following a conductor’s baton, the rain came pouring down. Drops of water bounced off the iron ledge with soft, coaxing clicks. I went to the window. Just in time to see the disturbed chestnut — our chestnut — begin to shed everything past its bloom. Wet flowers were pouring down onto the trash bins, the abandoned bikes, the pathway nobody had cleaned in a long time. But when it cleared, our chestnut stood unchanged. In full bloom, as if nothing had happened. The evening grew brighter than the day.