weather report

The rain that pattered through this November day was the kind of rain I always write about, the rain I add to a scene if it needs the grace and inward turning of reflection, that extra whooshing of a passing vehicle or the eloquence of dripping clothing as it dries, slung over a chairback. Spattering my windowpane, beating a gentle tattoo on the roof above my low ceiling, whispering to me as I lie in bed, this rain makes a space in my life around the sheltering roof. In rain the aromas of the earth come rising up to blend in endless conversation around each inhaled breath, and I stand sniffing like a dog, tracking down the experience of the weather. Expressive, gentle, everywhere at once, this rain is a miracle filling five-gallon plastic buckets left in the driveway.