It rained

Last Night.  There is no more happy sound on this earth than that of a serious-minded rain on a metal roof.  I hope for a wet, muddy, "miserable" Christmas, for green shoots, puddles, streams, mushrooms in the cowpies, clouds, mist, fog, dew.  In the midst of the second year of drought, rain-water and all the phenomena associated with it, the very words themselves, have a sensual, almost erotic, fascination.  In classical Chinese "clouds & rain" is a euphemism for sexuality.  I no longer consider it an odd metaphor.   When it rains I feel as if a darkness is washing away: dark worry, depression, fear.  In its place is a new, small joy.