It's bright over there a ways. I can see from the top of this hill that we either will be in that shine soon, or it recently left us behind. Either way, it's raining on us here, in a new way for this year, without the weight of permanence that we will skulk about beneath soon enough.
The dog is in no position to contend with it, having spent the last months beating a bed for herself into the dried up grass out back. She pokes a curious toe into the wet lawn from the patio, looks back at me once, then pees right there on the cement. It is as it should be, she is allowed to choose as much. She has never been afraid of the thunder, and isn't today, but a little wet grass tickling her underparts is completely unacceptable.
This is my Americana, I suppose. Silent but for the rainfall, dog lying on the rug to gaze through the front door, child napping below me, and then this cold machine that I keep counsel with, insulting me and my autumn afternoon like a switchblade torn through the canvas. So connected, yet so mercilessly unattached.