It rained, finally, this morning. I woke sometime after three and lay in the dark, half-aware, blinking into the black beneath the blinds—at the soft rain pouring like breath against the windowscreen, at the hesitant shimmer of water in the light, the deserted streetlamps.
Then, this evening, the lawns in Honeoye Falls (our last week here) stretched out as if dead, yellowed and withering under an untiring sun. (Or is it us? Are we the untiring?)
Everything, these days, is a desert.
My throat dries up whenever I speak because sometimes I don’t want you to hear me.
