The rain falls from the rooftops, the rain strings beads from the eaves. A barn owl screeches somewhere up above, like the voice of prophecy, the sound of tomorrow always harsh while living with yesterday's ears. Snails take to the pavement where earthworms squirm, drowning in slow motion. I loiter on the porch, watching the weather. I loiter on the porch, watching the sky come down.
I am always waiting for the rain. The wide grays and lover's crush of it. The threads of water and the patter on the window panes. Even when it causes trouble for me, I still want it. Dogs and children tracking in mud, extra cleaning and towels, and card games with some bastard's idiot spawn. The deep music is worth it. The sound of that ocean-less tide, a river striding across the restless dirty city.
I belong to bad weather the way I belong to the night. It asks more and less of a devotee, a certain clumsy resolution I carry between shoulder blades and stolen glances. Belong to the red columns and the wash outs, belong to the also-rans and remainder bins, you learn the long sustained notes of the song of the world. You watch with eyes loosed from the spells of love and plunder, with the eyes that carry the weight of the days of the unmet gaze. You watch because you have little bearing and so few chores. It is a conspiracy of untold sadness and luxury. The night calls, and it asks for so little, I always come running at a slothful and measured pace. The rain calls me, and all I need to do is hold still and watch.