inside observer

I love these summer rains
that fall into the earth with
big, heavy
drops of water that
audibly splatter
on the pavement.
Crescendos of intensity wax and wane
and everything shimmers.
New. Alive.

But more I love the few
moments of silence between flashes,
when no animal dares make a sound
for fear of provoking
the next outburst.

In this particular moment
of silence
a deer with her
young, white-spotted fawn
(who does not yet understand
the purpose of his legs)
move among the trees,
the awkward little one
struggling
to stay with his graceful mother
as his joints bend unfamiliarly beneath him.

They are completely oblivious
of my watchful eyes,
which look on from a window
just feet away
that cuts me off from their world
and acts as a barrier,
protecting us from each other
except for when the rain
pushes through the window screen
leaves flecks of moisture on my face
and invites me into the circle.