Heavy Sloppy Rain

Rain, sheets of it, huge globs of it pelting us, on the attack. Forget the idea of a drizzle. There was nothing misty and beautiful about it. No, this rain was fierce, wind-driven, the stuff of novels on English heaths, the stuff of homeless wandering with a thin layer of clothing that always makes us happy we have a place to go inside. This was a cold rain, and on Monday night everyone came flying into the meeting space soaked, hair splatted down, with water dripping down our faces, eye makeup drooling down cheeks, sodden books and papers. This was the rain of a Hollywood machine. This rain left made swimming holes out of parking lots and roads.

Now, the keeper told me all of this. I stayed in and watched it slam against the house and the bird feeders. I listened as it cascaded down the gutters. I waited for her to come home. I didn't want to float away without her. How would she find me? She was out a long time. I was hungry and ready to tear at the plastic bags. But at 10:30 she arrived and I displayed my displeasure.

She told me to be grateful that the roof wasn't leaking, and that we would get a new roof soon.
She gave me food. We turned on the heat, and had a gentle, warm night.