November 8th, 2002

caillebotte_man at his window

Still Raining

When I went to my Lycos in box to fetch e-mail tonight, I noticed that the local weather forecast which they display for me there said that Paradise will have "tons of rain" on Thursday and Friday. Heh. Tons. By Saturday, there will merely be "rain." I take this to mean that less than two tons will fall that day. I love an accurate forecast.

After some blustery hours last evening, the storm has settled down to a fairly steady drizzle. Drizzles make for soothing listening. In fact, I keep nodding off as a result of the hypnotic purr of rain on the leaves outside my window. I'm like the soil, soaking it up after the long dry spell. Soon, green thoughts. For now, sleep.
caillebotte_man at his window

First Rain

In the grey dawn, the clouds settled on the town and swirled like filmy curtains, opening and closing. Through the fig, the treetops seemed as insubstantial as puffs of smoke. All day, I slept to the sound of water dripping from the leaves, provoking dreams of walking wet paths, catching glimpses of squirrels and raccoons scampering across beds of freshly strewn pine needles.

Awaking to an afternoon of slate sky and intermittent noyades of colorful leaves, I went about the town on autumn's glittering carpet, listening to the rush of freshened streams. Late, the clouds broke in the west, revealing patches of blue framed in silver and white, and sunlight at last streamed through to set the red and green and golden trees aglow, and turn the wet pavements to bright mirrors, reflecting woods and clouds and sky.

Trunks and boughs, dark and shiny with rain, are now revealed behind thinned screens of leaves, like an emerging palimpsest of winter's stark arboreal calligraphy. Darkness falls, and the ravelled message is veiled until another day. Concealed in starless night, all the wet woodland stirs in the cool breeze, and whispers, and hums.