As I write tis the sky out my window is light but solid thick grey. The rain has been a soaking rain all day, probably the heaviest ran since last summer's monsoon season. It slackens off, then comes back stronger, the sign of a true rainy day.
The sound of the rain on the pavement outside is like listening to oil in a frying pan, fizzing and popping. What is frying? bacon? It makes me hungry to think of it.
Having done the day's business I will now go out and play in the rain, which means walking around it and looking at the rivulets in the gutters, which I imagine are mighty streams, and maybe go out and visit the parts of the undeveloped desert still accessible to me, where I might see the flowing water carving channels, and imagine the rabbits hiding from both me and the elements.
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