Rain

Instead of snow (it is still February) we get an inch of rain. In western Colorado it was a twelve-to-one equation, here it's likely ten-to-one. I put out my buckets to harvest some water. Supposed to get violent weather, spring weather, but the frost is mostly out of the ground. Walking in, I used a stick to move matted leaves from the mouths of the culverts. The drainage all looks good, but it's at the whim of nature, any odd debris pile could force water into a desire path that undermines the driveway. Thunder rolls across the ridges, low and ominous, I feel it in my feet and ankles more than I hear it. But there's that bass note, sustained, then flashes of lightning. I'd better save. Suddenly quiet, the rain stops, and the wind, a lull. Silent flashes of light, silhouette trees, the expectation, then the rolling sound. This cell, or system, whatever it is, is miles to the south of me, well across the river, deep into Kentucky. Some higher notes now, as the sky cracks open, a ripple that rends from one horizon to the other. Otto Rank. I still read him, he's useful. Jesus, the thunder is in layers, the house is shaking, vibrating, as concussive waves rattle the timbers. It's right on top of me now, rain in sheets, and my chair is bouncing across the floor. Torrential rain, thunder, lightning. I'd better go. It passes. Severe events seem to pass quickly. A cramp, or being struck by lightning. You know what I mean. Later, when we wash down the killing floor, there might be some remorse, but rarely a sense of guilt. I fabricate. It's what I do. Almost late for work, staying up with the storm, but I get there in time to shave and wash my hair, set-to with the punch list. A lot of little things. TR and I dug out the bonnets (vitrines, in the trade), which meant shuffling all the bonnets we weren't going to use. Many fingerprints, but we try to keep them all on the outside, that way they can be cleaned (alcohol and lintless cloth) after they're installed. Several loads to the basement. Devising a method to hang a quilt, a lovely quilt, on the wall behind the receptionist. Only a problem because it's a very hard wall and I'll have to hammer-drill anchor pockets. Hanging quilts is tricky because they're never exactly straight, so we use an empirical method that involves attaching one end then moving the other end around and marking the spot where we like it best. Problem is that we often adjust these several times, but when you're sinking an anchor in well aged concrete, you want to get it right the first time. I have tricks. There are ways that I can easily deceive the eye. One can. Deceive is too strong a word, 'fool' might be better. I can insert dowels, above or below the hanging stick within the pocket. Talk about micro-managing, bend the screw up or down a wee bit. Perfect is relative. Wait, that isn't supposed to be possible, but you do it as a matter of course. It's just the next thing. Life is one crisis after another. Like crows in a dead oak tree.