Rain - sharing the starlight of the cosmos

Rain

A brief entry to comment on the fact that it's raining. Not the hard rain of Dylan's song, but the nuzzling rain of a dripping pine.

When I went out a couple of hours ago, I noticed that the clouds were the color of porridge. But there was no sprinkle or drizzle. All I noticed was that, after lunch, the clouds were a darker tint.

As usual, I had to make one of my bi-daily treks to WalMart. I'm back trying to find a suitable container for the wee boxes I've collected. I've had them in a basket, a glass vase, back to the basket and now to two glass vases. And I still don't like the way they look. They don't show up in the vases. But this will have to do until I can figure a way to keep Tiger, Tiger from spraying the basket.

As I came out, I noticed a woman coming in folding an umbrella. And indeed there was a faint mizzle. I wandered around a little hoping to be able to find my car. I knew I'd taken the first spot I saw, which meant I was at the end of the line of cars. My little car was sitting all by itself like a lost weeping iguana, no other cars or people nearby.

I opened the back door, and as I turned toward the basket, I heard a "shadowy, white-noise sound," almost below the range of hearing. I stood there wearing my customary puzzled mask, and then I realized it was the sound of the mist against the white plastic bags.

This was one of those bizarre moments when you realize you've stumbled onto one of the obscure mysteries of nature. I there had been other cars or people around, I would not have caught the sound. Yet, it is so amazing that I've never heard that exact sound before. There's something panthestic about such a moment, as though you're sharing the starlight of the cosmos.