The forecast read “Rain.” In fact, the trusted meteorologist of much local renown had predicted “record” rains which meant sheets over sheets of precipitation laid upon the greater metropolitan area.
The liquid sleep.
Though the roads remained a corridor of motion (with the added slash of insistent tires through muddy puddles,) most of the outdoors went quiet. Activity regressed to its hives.
“Avatar of love,” said I, “why then under the mirky canopy of storms do I feel an emptiness that seems unredeemable? Am I simply crazy?”
“Oh, no.” said she, “Your mentality is not up for question. I know from insanity. I’ve stared deeply into its soul. You are far from Persephone’s lair on that subject.”
(We do often think of evil as confined:
to lairs, to labyrinths, deep in caverns
I watched the raindrops melt onto the pane of my kitchen window. Out in the yard, the grass bed flexed and shook in the downpour. The trees shimmered glumly. An eon of thought crawled on through, inched and inched one spindly step at a time.
Later that evening, dew shook from a silky web, fell silently, and disappeared into the wetness below.