There it is, that pre-dawn scuffling on the roof, rats or squirrels or raccoons. I grab my flashlight and go out to investigate and mirabile dictu it’s RAIN. Enough to penetrate the sparse thatch of the crown of my head. Enough to make me take my shoes and my bucket of tools inside.

RAIN. I take full credit. My wooing campaign is taking off.

No sooner than I start to crow I am afflicted with mites of doubt. What if all this acclamation is confusing the rain god(s) into coming in September, and that by November the gods will have lost their way? Perhaps it’s better not to admit harboring an uncertainty about the intelligence of the fluvial deities. Surely they will find their way back at the appropriate time. Still, and I swear this will be my last questioning of the great and unsurpassable rain gods, these self-same gods do occasionally have a tendency to act like frat boys at a party school. Go overboard, as it were.

Okay. Got that out of my system. By the time I do, the rain is over. Enough to leave a smell. Enough to give the plants of the garden an erotic thrill. Enough to make me think. they’re listening. Keep wooing. We want more.


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