Raining — one of those words that is self-explanatory — no need to describe low-hung clouds, dull light, a steady tattoo of water on the roof or running from the eaves. No reason to advise people what to wear or that, ‘sorry, no beach activities today, the picnic and fireworks are cancelled, the parade has been rained upon.’
Raining says it all.
The birds are huddled together in the crooks of trees where boles meet branches.
Meteorologists have donned their hats, shut down their radar maps and gone home — ‘nothing more to say folks, it’s raining, and it’s not my fault.’
Recess has become a series of spelling bees and google searches as teachers desperately seek to amuse their students.
Smokers have abandoned their pleasure, too wet to get a cigarette, a pipe, a cigar lit, much less keep the spark smouldering while they indulge, shoulders haunched and high against the cold damp that drips from their coats or finds its way between collar and bare neck.
A chill shivers and touches dank fingers to feathers, to skin, drizzling down window panes, drawing out musk from damp fur and wool, and filling up pails set beneath leaks in the rook.
Where it is hot, rain steals breath; where cold, it freezes what it touches. And we are left wondering if it is possible to count raindrops. if it is sunny over the horizon, and when … when will it end?