The August Wet Spot

Drip, drip, drip…. No, this is not the sound of a faulty valve leaking uncontrollably. Nor is it the sound of post nasal drip from a Flu virus suddenly contracted from a night out on the town with the buds…. This is the sound of rain water dripping from off my bedroom window sill while I’m halfway between awakeness and a warm suggley dream about Ali Moore, a porn star from the eighties. Drip, drip, drip.

I look at the date-time stamp on my monitor as “August 19” illuminates across the top right corner, and I think about this sad realization that there is only eleven more days until September: the unofficial start to fall.

Rain, go away, come back another day. This is weird to have rain this time of year because it is so warm out. This must be what it is like to be living in the tropics. It does feel like a jungle, if this is a jungle….

While rain hits the ground, the pounding sounds made by constructions workers who are working through the weekend hit nails and move boards to prepare frames for a foundation for a large house. The workers don’t even seem to be phased by the leaking atmosphere. My neighbour starts his vehicle, then driving off to wherever he needs to go, and he does not seem to be phased by the rain. The little black squirrel who tries to carry a peanut in his mouth, handed out by a tenant down the way, bounces and skips over the grass, and does he not seem to mind the rain.

Perhaps I need to look above the clouds.

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