The Rains Came

The rains came, and they haven't gone away. Seven days and seven nights. Soon we'll all have webbed feet. The stagnant slough behind our house is a little river, just like in the spring. My poor begonia is still a mass of yellow blossoms, but a soggy, shivering mass. It's too web to plant the bulbs I bought.

When a task was difficult, my Dad always said, "it's too wet to plough."

It really is too wet to plough. And the chickens are coming home to roost. Wait til the cows come home. What is going to happen to these colorful old expressions when everyone has left the farm except agribusiness? This is a mournful thought. When my mom would exclaim, "I went to bed with the chickens, " she meant early. How many people even know, never mind care that chickens roost when the sun goes down? At least the ones that aren't herded together cheek by jowl in horrible chicken houses where they can't get out and eat bugs and peck in the dirt.

Khrushev remarked, "that's like leaving the goat to mind the cabbage." What a good image! Writer's always look for the right word, the image that makes everything true. It could be an old stone barn covered with ivy or a squirrel scampering across the road. Something that brings you to the place and puts you there. Solidly.

The rain is general over Boston. It never rains but it pours.

Damply,

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