Rain, that thing that ruins summer weekends at the beach – but only weekends. That falls on unprotected heads, that makes soggy the books we leave in the grass and turns grains of sand to clumpy mud. It conspires to help breed new mosquito populations; we wonder where the squirrels hide.
Then the rain passes. Quietly, it slinks away. How refreshed the exhausted, August green. Flush, drunk with new life.
It comes to mind, from the deep recesses, that our ancestors prayed for it. They prayed, they danced, implored the god who threatened to withhold, should they act brazenly. It seemed so archaic. It seemed absurd. It seemed worthy of a Jeopardy question.
The absurd is now.