Justina Holahan

The Coming Rain

The air is sticky. This is always the first sign that the crisp coldness of the forest will soon give way to a warm, incessant downpour that characterizes the shift of seasons. It has always perplexed me how a desperate landscape such as the one I traipse currently manages to maintain such a consistent schedule. As if time were the only thing it has left to nurse. It is easy for me to pass judgement upon the desolate trees and dried moss, but in reality, we have quite a bit in common. I too only have the hours of the sun to sustain me and the tally marks on the trees to tend to. Perhaps I am worse than the forest. These marks of passage fade from me quickly, and the seasons begin to blend, rendering their revolutions useless to me. But not this year. This year I am tracking every moment.