Rain

It crawls over the horizon, sending promising filaments of white into the mountain pines at high altitude, then cedes to an hour of unforecast but familiar sun, which blasts cheerily into the valley. It makes happiness, of course, but buds and roots hunger for the gray edge in the west. Then the wind whips up and the temperature drops off, and the cloud pulls down over the peaks again, rushes down until the mountain is invisible, white only, and the air in the valley crackles with change. People lean into the wind. They walk faster, shop faster. The pace of business quickens as those in the store hurry to finish their missions of resupply, but few new customers come through the doors. Those who do dart through the aisles, hastily plucking three or four things to get them through the short term.

By the time it arrives, the rain finds an empty canvas in the parking lot. It spatters it with tiny uniform dots, testing, testing, then with medium ones, then large, now covers it completely, along with every surface under the sky, the whole valley subject to its brush, then its sponge, then its roller. For the first time in months rain falls in steady constancy, layer upon layer, filling every opening, crowding out air and loosing a smell of freshness, rebirth, ozone, energy, spring. Gravity pulls the rain to earth yet faster, as if water needs encouragement to sink, to penetrate, to fill every gap in concrete, dirt, or skin. The workers idle and watch it come, no longer workers but rainwatchers every one.

Sanctuary

I pull open the door of the only church in town that isn't locked. Four hours past dark by now. Damn the Methodists, Catholics, First Presbyterians, First Christians, UUs and Baptists; two wet thumbs up for the Second Presbies. “It's raining out there and I'm alone,” I announce to the dark room. “I'm sleeping here.” It's ugly, and not very warm, but at least it doesn't echo. Felt banners with goofy cutout doves and trumpets absorb my words, and fuzzy carpeting absorbs the gunk my boots track down the aisle. Rain or no, I'd have slept outside, in a covered dumpster or maybe under an alley awning, if Liza had been with me. Dog warmth and dog sighs even let me get a little dreaming in. But since we got split up at the train crossing, it's been churches and piped-in air all the way. I can't sleep out without her, and I sure haven't dreamed in two weeks. The best spot for curling up, if I've got to be in, is usually behind the pulpit. It's like a little fortress. In six hours or so, when a janitor or old lady or somebody comes in to straighten up, I'll have a few seconds unseen to formulate an exit strategy. I get into place and cover up with a cloth drape from the altar. “No I don't believe,” I add, addressing the drop-ceiling. “And if you see my dog, tell her to come home.”