When The Sky Splits

I can smell it in the air. Sweet and musty like tuskers
and damp transport seats. Here in Kenya, when the sky bursts, everything
rejoices. Rain clouds loom above me, looking down,

beaming. The clouds here aren’t the same, or so I’ve come
to notice. They glide through the air, plump bellies ripe
with rain. And when they’re ready to come to term, they give

Kenya life. I can feel it in the air today. Kenyan mothers soar
above me and I can see their swollen stomachs, I can sense
the coming showers. When the clouds give,

life comes to the Mara. The locals feel it too. Birds fly to shelter under the acacia,
antelope stop their grazing and tilt their ears to the sky.
Kenya knows it’s coming. Rain. The transport rumbles along and the sky rumbles

with us. Young mothers waddle to their homes and boys herd
cows into pastures. The village, the Mara, the red Kenyan soil is pregnant
with anticipation of the first drop. It falls

to the ground. A single moment passes, the clouds split
open. And with that, Kenya is drenched. Red soil turns
to red muck and I can feel the tires slipping beneath me. Somewhere

in the distance, lightning cracks
the marble sky, beyond the clouds. There’s something about the way
they’re shaped like tufts of candy floss and painted

like watercolor. Something about the way
they keep to themselves until they find the Mara on the brink. Something,
and when the rain stops, the sun breaks through.

Kenya is red, green, and doused in light.