It’s always raining. Paralyzing midday rain muting everything with white noise, falling out of the deep rumble of clouds, lit by an unseen sun giving them the appearance of raw sheep wool charged with static electricity. Rain is nature’s metronome knocked out of sync, battered by the eons to swing erratically between tempos. It’s a thinking man’s companion. It plays and dances, takes one step forward, two steps back. A lull until a deluge, a lazy patter until a crack of thunder. It leaves pieces of itself, leaves a scent. It makes us stay in bed, rolling in and out of dreams, merging and balancing the hazy scatter of the mind. And like any meditation, it eventually reaches an end. And when it’s gone the air gets hot, dust blows in the wind, and the day fills with unsyncopated sounds drifting in from far. The leftovers burn off, clouds pull back to reveal their blue skin. Earth reemerges draped in tiny pearls on each silken web and leafy finger. And whether it were minutes, hours, or days of watching the firmament make love with its foundation, we now squint not at the glowing wool but the great burning bulb too proud to live dormant.