Sometimes we like the rains, sometimes we don’t. This one just now that I earlier woke too, a mid-summer’s rain making quiet on the roof, seems especially fine. I don’t know why. It just is. The sheep are grazing, the hummingbirds working, only the cat wants in. So I open the door and she comes in wet.
Rain on the roof here in New Hampshire just like rain on the roof when I was a child in Pennsylvania. We lived by a creek, and when it rained the Mallard ducks that lived there would paddle and quack and come and go, and the sound of their living would join with the rain, and standing in the doorway I would listen and dream.
Mid-summer rains. They never change. While always different they’re always the same. And so, too, us when we stand alone somewhere listening to them. With all of our joys and disappointments standing with us, passing through us. These moments transpire, they disappear, and we move on and live as before. We could live differently, maybe, follow some wisp that surprised us. But as rain dreams are the surely the most elusive dreams, when we turn to go, it’s always back to where we were.