A rain so soft
this morning, it sounds like wind in the trees. The greyness is mild and soothing, like a nurse's hand. We have everything we need; some of us just don't know it.
What is this need to write of everything? Who shall ever read of this day, and will he care, will she? We have got to go through every day as if it is important, or we'd kill ourselves, wouldn't we? We can't live with days that mean nothing. Yet it is not easy to tease out each day's meaning. So most of us don't try: we nod at the day the way we nod at a stop sign as we roll through it, barely paying attention. This rain will never come again. Know it today.
The peonies along the garage are pretty much done for the year.
The intensity of the rain has increased. It's quite a song now on the roof of my pick-up. The world is green with the good moisture we've had here - now three years of good moisture, ey?
As I back out of our driveway, water is running rapidly in the gutters along Washington Street. Sheets of rain sweep before me like a hand gesturing. The flag at the cemetery is wet and limp. North of the village, the water standing between rows of corn shines. The ammonia tanks along Highway E have been taken away; it is just a bare, wet field there today. To the north - silos in the rain like a dream of silos.
At Five Corners someone has put up a new sign, a white cross with signatures on it, for the two high school students who died here. R.I.P. it says. Rest in peace.
Why would there be a God?
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