Sunday, May 15, 2005

Hard Rain

It's an early Sunday morning. My body clock gets up at 6:00, whether it's a weekday or a weekend. It doesn't know well enough to let me sleep in. So I get up, shower, shave and get some tea. Ah, White Tip Earl Grey tea. There is nothing better.

The rain has started. Our little home is draped with water. The rain is so heavy I feel like a spider under a tub spout. The water comes as if someone just turned it on. I peeked out of the window not minutes ago and all was dry. Now it sounds like I am standing next to Niagara Falls, intense, constant, and heavy. But then, as quick as it came, it'll lighten enough for me to hear the hollow downspouts echo the downpour on a smaller scale. I spoke to soon, the heavy water returns again.

The next wave of heavy water pours now, as if a tug boat pulling a freighter is passing by, and I'm in a small boat dowsed by the huge wave. The flood engulfs our subdivision like a bucket on an ant colony. It's a dark stormy morning.

This is a stay-in kind of morning. It's a day for reading, study, and writing.

Who wants to go out in this whether? I need another cup of tea.

Criticism, like rain, should be gentle enough to nourish a man's growth without destroying his roots. -Frank A. Clark