But the rain, now thought likely to last five days, off and on, that's such a welcome inconvenience. I can almost imagine not having to ration my showers next summer (knock on unburned wood.) It's going to get cold enough in the mountains for some snow to accumulate, too. And the wind has already begun, too. Some gusts have been so loud and sustained that they might be mistaken for jet planes passing over. It's going to be stronger Monday. I have to remember to keep my phone charged, in case there's a power outage. It should be an interesting week.
Now, if only my joints would stay where they're supposed to be.
Sunday Verse
The Same Old Figurative
by Joel Toledo
Yes, the world is strange, riddled with difficult sciences
and random magic. But there are compensations, things we do
perceive: the high cries and erratic spirals of sparrows,
the sky gray and now giving in to the regular rain.
Still we insist on meaning, that common consolation
that, now and then, makes for beauty. Or disaster.
Listen. The new figures are simply those of birds,
the whole notes of their flightless bodies now snagged
on the many scales of the city. And it’s just some thunder,
the usual humming of wires. It is only in its breaking
that the rain gives itself away. So come now and assemble
with the weather, notice the water gathering on your cupped
and extended hands — familiar and wet and meaningless.
You are merely being cleansed. Bare instead
the scarred heart; notice how its wild human music
makes such sense. Come, the divining
can wait.
Let us examine the wreckage.