The rains come with a magnificence that suits them. Vigorous, bracing. So far no floods, no mudslides. Multiple vintages of dog piss washed into the sea. The ginkgo leaves turn a higher carat of gold almost overnight and fall, bushel after bushel. I sweep them into my wide new aluminum dustpan. I love my new aluminum dustpan. I’m not greatly into things (so he says) but this simple instrument has changed my life like little else lately. Is that a sad thing to say of one’s life?

I dump the golden ginkgo leaves over the fence into the garden scattering them will-nilly. The garden understory increases in eccentricity, a crazy quilt. Elm leaves, maple leaves (bags-ful of them collected in other gardens), straw, now ginkgo leaves.  Not pretty but not ugly.

It’s Christmas, party season. I pick out the green shirt from the bedroom closet, vaguely seasonal, more or less dressy. It takes a few moments for me to register it doesn’t feel right. The left side is wet. Sure enough there’s a puddle on the floor. The gray futon I store there has a dark shoreline.

I strategically place buckets. Drip drip, I hear as I fall asleep, almost asleep. Drip.

I swore a vow last year, I would never complain about rain again. I swear, this is not a complaint.


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