September 2

Leaves are like carillon bells,

played by healing summer rain, a wild and joyful rhythm on thousands and thousands of tiny green bells.

Bells, leaves, yes.

And blades of grass.

There are brown spots of grass, one where a structure overshadowed it for too long, and two, parched and crackling, whose origins I cannot figure out. What I know is that the hungry roots call to the rain as the overshadowed blades call to the sun on other days.

If this were a metaphor, I might have insight about what the rain is and how to heal the desert-dry spots.

But it’s not. I am simply standing in the rain, face upturned.

I believe in rain. It seems like a nice thing to believe in.