The Rain Here, In Its Fits and Spits

The rain here, in its fits and spits and intermittent stopovers, seems at times nothing more than a nuisance. A presence known, yet foreign. The mélange of melancholy dreams, of jerk reactions, of passing thoughts.

It wakes me during the night. The patter. The indeterminate melody. Even the sheep I count can’t seem to understand its place, its irrational rhythm.

It feeds the plants and trees and molds that bloom to conspire against me. My nasal cavity, the incessant tingling therein. The internal itch. Ears, eyes and throat aflame in allergen-induced hell. In these times, I thank the pink, oblong bodies in the plastic OTC bottle. I thank the drug companies and the market place that makes it so I’m able to purchase these tender morsels in large quantities for cheap.

It saturates the city parks and fields just enough to postpone the soccer games on Thursdays and Sundays. I think, goddamn you. These are my cathartic moments. They were manufactured to exist as consistent reasons to love and to play. But you, in your transience, strip these moments away.

The rain here, in its interim outpouring, is like acid falling from the cumulonimbus death bringers from above. Fearful of its touch, they run with blazers outstretched, like the winged expanse of a condor or bat. They run to their cars, the dryness of which warms their souls.

The rain here, despite it all, is welcome. Welcome to form puddles for critter bug and I to pounce in. Welcome to create the diamond-shaped, emerald leaves on the trees, the sweet crisp of an apple in Spring, the clouds that inspire such thought.

Oh the rain, in your fits and spits, you’re a nuisance but I love you.

Seascape and Rain from The Royal Academy of Sciences

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