precipitate.

As we piled into the car,
muting the storm, my mind
turned a backward somersault,
running like highway raindrops
racing each other backwards
on our old minivan window,
rewinding to those days packed
away in attic cardboard boxes
filled with plastic photobooks.

Back then, when it rained,
the inkblot reds and greens
like Christmas lights in August
would dance between the wipers'
rhythmic crocodile chomps.
The million-megapixel outside world,
loud with harsh and blaring sounds
and brash interrogation lights,
became a calming blur
behind the glass, the buckled belt,
and the warm, familiar security
of Dad behind the wheel.