A Rainy Sunday
June 27 2010


A rainy Sunday
and only the hard-core remain.
Mostly refugees from the west coast.
Pasty sunless creatures
who are impervious to rain,
have learned you’ll never get out
if you wait.

There are the walkers, undaunted,
well-armed
with umbrellas, galoshes.
And stalwart joggers
squishing along,
in skin-tight Lycra
that soaks-up twice its weight.
And long haul hikers
flaunting high-tech gear.

The dog, too, is oblivious to weather.
She pads up the trail on waterproof feet,
casually shakes herself dry.
So we make the best of it,
take the path less travelled
have the place to ourselves.

I charge through the deepest puddles like a kid,
smug
in rubberized gumboots.
And duck
under water-logged branches,
sagging with the added weight.
Cold wet leaves
smack my face,
and rain-pants are plastered to my legs,
soaked through
by the underbrush.
The forest is dark green
in the dull even light
of rain.
And the trees
keep drizzling down,
no way to tell
if it’s stopped.

It’s hot
in this water proof jacket
fuzzy socks.
I look enviously at the dog,
unencumbered by outerwear
space-age fabrics.
She is rolling in the mud
where something must have died
recently,
delighted to be out, unleashed.

Doesn’t know
it’s Sunday.
Doesn’t miss the sun.