My Sunday Morning Walk began at 11.00 in the morning. Though the early morning began with peeks of hazy sun, it was now gray and rainy. Despite the colorless jacket the morning had taken on, there was reason to take joy. In the last several weeks, my facial epidermis had become a rock as hardened as the droughty earth beneath. As the farmers of Missouri saw their livelihood threatened, I likewise suffered an increasingly painful inability to see or work. Now, with a slow but incessant drip, the dusts of February were finally retreating.
I watched the sidewalks and the asphalt as that dust turned to sand and slickness. It was warm enough to hear the birds chirping, and the low clouds created a canopy that let their songs echo in a way they wouldn’t on a clear blue day. I was reminded of the enclosed sense of distance one experiences in the big big Jungle Room at the Wichita Zoo. Because I hate umbrellas, I stayed within the immediate streets of my pied-à-terre, in case the rain turned to a pour. My cheeks drank and smiled, a weight had been lifted. Rejoicing in something so simple as precipitation, I thought for a moment of what it must be like to rely upon the earth’s blessings. A dangerous, but healthy dependence, I thought. For the farmers and for me, I smiled some more, with a knowledge of the news-lady’s latest prediction. She says it’ll keep till Friday. Maybe with some thunder.