I moved myself and my writing paraphernalia to the kitchen table, so I could watch the rain.
It rained so mightily you could not see the neighbor’s house. The storm was an opaque white blur of falling wet. Big, heavy drops raced and jockeyed. And it was loud. The clouds released a tumult, pounding the deck, the furniture and the whole world.
The rain swallowed everything, including my thoughts. I did no work. My words were swept away. There I sat helpless to rescue my story or the drowning ivy.
The gloom outside was a magnet. A drenched, drowning magnet with nowhere else to cling, it amassed and assembled rivers and puddles of flooded intentions.
Where do the songbirds go when it rains?
The robin roosts, impatient for the worst of the storm to pass, so she can hunt for floating worms and swollen grubs. Mourning doves, never shy at the all you can eat buffet, still waddle out just after the heaviest rain moves through. Finches, nearly motionless in the maple branches, try to conserve warmth and energy with a daydream of sunrises bringing sunflower and thistle seed among a garden of marigolds and zinnias.
At least that is what I imagine. The songbirds and I pay witness to a reverie of delayed ambition…just until the sun shines.