It’s bright over there a ways. I can see from the top of this hill that we either will be in that shine soon, or it recently left us behind. Either way, it’s raining on us here, in a new way for this year, without the weight of permanence that we will skulk about beneath soon enough.

The dog is in no position to contend with it, having spent the last months beating a bed for herself into the dried up grass out back. She pokes a curious toe into the wet lawn from the patio, looks back at me once, then pees right there on the cement. It is as it should be, she is allowed to choose as much. She has never been afraid of the thunder, and isn’t today, but a little wet grass tickling her underparts is completely unacceptable.

This is my Americana, I suppose. Silent but for the rainfall, dog lying on the rug to gaze through the front door, child napping below me, and then this cold machine that I keep counsel with, insulting me and my autumn afternoon like a switchblade torn through the canvas. So connected, yet so mercilessly unattached.

9 thoughts on “Rain

  1. It's raining buckets, with hail thrown in for good measure, down in my neck of the Puget Sound region. Both my dogs went outside, realized it was raining, and came right back in.Oh, and the roof is leaking above the master bath. Yay me…


  2. ALL my dogs hated rain; it was a helluva hard sell to get 'em out in it. But the upside was they did their business quickly.Yeah… so connected, yet not. It's kinda perverse.


  3. That you write like pure wind when you knock the blockage back to a dark spot on the map. You write circles around that nasty bitch when the clouds clear.You are so seriously gifted – you leave me in awe some days when I pull up your posts. Your words sing thick and true, they dance and dip, finding home straight off the dime. I love reading you when you've slung it well. You make me want to write better. And that's a damn good thing. I like you and your work, Andy.


  4. Such melancholy as to shame despair dug from fathomless depths of anguish. I know their sisters too, fear and loathing. These languid pools draw us by powers beyond the ken of mortal man. I think of Narcissus gazing on HIS reflection in that pool.


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