Again today, 4th in a row, the same song spooling in my head. “Oh sisters, let’s go down, let’s go down, come on down.” It’s a top of the line rainy day, the first since forever. In the acoustic shell of my windbreaker I sing with a purity of voice almost equal to Alison Krauss. What a joke. With a purity of intent, let’s say (and exaggerate.) The windbreaker is not remotely waterproof and I am soaked to my underwear. “As I went down to the river to pray.” The rain is manna. The oxalis falls over itself to soak it up, forgetting to clamp down before my plucky fingers. I kneel in the mud. “Studying about that good old way.”
The rain shifts gears, gusts of wind pry yellow leaves from the curbside myoporum. Background becomes foreground, mist balloons over shimmery asphalt and cars waterwing past. “For the benefit of Mr. Kite, there will be a show tonight on trampoline.” The melody has shifted from gospel to circus.
I’m getting cold. Now it’s anyone’s guess which will happen, I finish the weeding or the weeding finishes me. “Haste, haste, to bring Him laud.” Haste, rhymes with waste. If it only made a difference.
We finish in a tie. Whew.
Mud in fingernails, in the pickup, at the bottom of the bathtub. A warm shower is an everyday transcendence. Thanks to who it may concern. The song is wearing out its welcome, but one more time, with feeling. “Let’s go down, down in the river to pray.”
The Hendersons will all be there.