Brooke Forbes

Red dust settles, thick with rain drops; moisture meeting the great dry with poise and purpose.

A building crescendo rattles through Mparntwe; drops on aching roads, drops on empty school yards, drops on suburban tin sheds.

The animals respond: birds are shirking with half joy, half surprise, moths are dodging the crystal drops and camp dogs are finding shelter.

The river banks are yet to burst but it’s coming, this collective torrent, this flush of fresh downpour.

Soon the Todd River will flow, what will it bring? A soothing balm, some will say. A cold reprieve, say others. No one mentions disaster. No one mentions floods. No one talks of those without a bed tonight.

Nothing prepares you for the sight of water lapping down the dry river bed, pushing forward, stopping for no one.

A drop hits my cheek and my head turns –  my shoulders relax and my arms hang, my knees rock to the rhythm of the downpour and my shoe noises turn from a squeak to a squelch.

I look around and I see people coming, walking, running, dragging their heat-tired bodies to the bank.

The moment is ours; I realise, we drink it in, with a collective sigh, stood still in the landscape, all of us, suspended on a weather-born high.