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Thursday, February 5, 2009

The rain I got caught in today wasnít the pleasant spring rain of romance and poetry, but the nasty kind where the raindrops are like pellets of ice that donít come down from the sky but straight out of nowhere, right at your face. Itís like being attacked with a thousand tiny knives. And Iím convinced the only time it rained like that was when I was walking from my car to the post office. I do know that when I left the post office (about, oh, two minutes later), it had stopped raining altogether. But I was still wet, and cold.

Later in the afternoon I was sitting at the computer and I heard what sounded like a plane landing in my garden. This time it was the kind of rain that explodes from the clouds all at once, as if a giant bucket had been tipped over. This one didnít last very long, either, but it soaked the yard and filled the puddles in the driveway.

5 February 2009

Shades of gray.

No, I donít like the rain much. I donít think itís selfish to say I donít like it. If I had the power to stop it from raining — and used that power — now, that would be selfish. But I donít have it, and I probably wouldnít use it if I did. (You know who does like the rain? Every bird in the county, because they all seemed to be in my yard at the same time after the cloudburst this afternoon.)

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