The word rain can best be described as:
a. Water condensed from atmospheric vapor and falling in drops.
b. A fall of such water; a rainstorm.
c. The descent of such water.
d. Rainy weather.
e. All of the above.
One of my favorite nighttime noises, when I was living in the well-traveled suburbs outside of Manhattan, was the sound of passing cars on wet pavement. It seemed so romantic, as if an entire story was encoded into the rthymn created by rubber and saturated asphalt. Where were these people going when most everyone else was asleep in bed? What necessary errand or personal quest sent them out into the dank night? Love, tragedy, an ice cream jones? It was a lullaby, the words of which would change with each season, more gentle and full of love in the spring and summer, almost terrifying in the colder months.
It has been raining here for days and days, making the season feel all wrong. Instead of the vibrance and energy that usually accompanies Autumn in New England, there is a bitter feeling of impending winter. It is only a matter of degrees before all this precipitation turns from rain to snow. Yesterday, the air filled with another sound, an almost metallic screeching, when hundreds of birds landed on our driveway and in our trees. It was surreal, and for several long moments I wondered if they were exhibiting the unusual behavior some animals show before a natural disaster. I tried to imagine what horror might be coming our way as I attempted to count the crowing, flapping black shapes that surrounded the house. After a while, on some signal I couldn't hear, they took to the sky and swooped back and forth as they fixed their flight formation. Our home was nothing more than a migratory rest stop.
So it continues to rain, and I feel cold to my bones. I huddled today under two comforters, dressed in fleece and overalls, dreaming of seasonless warm climes. Somehow, my motivation seems as frozen as my hands feel. I tell myself that my mood, my whole physiology, will change when the rain stops and the sun comes back. Until then I am thinking of of Ray Bradbury's short story, "All Summer in a Day." I hope I'm not locked in a closet or stuck behind a pile of papers when the sun does finally come out. I'm ready to play.