I leave the novel I’m reading on the porch
where I’ve been enjoying the sun, the wisps
of high cloud, a robin’s song, and go inside
to answer the phone. It’s Bob, a friend
who lives ten miles to the west of me.
Get on your bikini, he says. I’m grabbing
the boat. You got whole barrels
of rain coming your way. No way, I say.
But when I go back out, a wall of clouds
thicker than tar is racing in from the west,
gobbling up the sky as it goes. The birds
are wild with warnings. I grab my book
and things that might fly away—the tablecloth,
the potted plant, the plastic chairs—and run inside,
beating the downpour by seconds.
I put the plant in its accustomed spot and watch
the scene melt through my rain-pelted window.
Who needs a novel when the world itself
offers such tumultuous drama!