Everyday, rain. It falls in thunderstorms, showers, drizzle. It comes in bands, waves, curtains, cloudbursts. Everywhere, fields of unmowed hay, grasses bent under the weight of seed and ceaseless water. The last load of laundry stayed on the line for a week or more; twice it was almost dry and I thought to bring it inside, but became distracted by matters more pressing. And so it got rained on again.
Yesterday I rode my bicycle in a steady rain, not a band or wave or curtain or cloudburst, but an entire sky full, low and heavy and seemingly without end. Yet it was warm and I felt light-hearted and a little silly as I licked road grit off my lips and spit it back to where it came from, eyes half-lidded against the sting of the pelting drops.
In a nearby town, I pedaled past a church lunch; the door was open and I could see that the church was full and I could smell the food, and it smelled just like church lunch should. Then home and into the pond, wet on top of wet, the water strangely warm the way it always is when I swim in the rain.