More Rain.

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday—and more of the same forecast for any of the other days on the near horizon you might care to name. We're in some kind of Floridian pattern here, only with Carolina breeze and gift-horse late-evening temps. Another three tenths tonight in 27401, and a reasonably good storm to go with it, if the leaves and branches in the dogwalked streets are any indication. No firsthand report at ANYLF late-summer rainfall HQ, though: we were in 27215, watching the young men throw the ball around and hit it a little. Oh, the dollar beer, the storm blowing hard just off to the north of the ballpark, the small children eating Icees and cotton candy. The American flag in center had caught on something, making it more of a sail and less of anything else, but you could still see the wind was blowing either dead out, or to left.

A pattern like this reminds me of ten years ago on Carr Street, those first summers of grad school, the last time I can remember being able to believe it would rain with any frequency: Kiddie pool under the front-yard crabapple, plastic boats big enough to float two beers and enough ice to keep them cool. Bowling in the center of the street. Up in the middles of nights to sit on one porch or another and watch storms come uphill from Tate and push past Mendenhall and towards downtown—storms, it turns out, like the one not even on the radar ten minutes ago that just opened up in full right here at 709. It's pouring. Pouring. Again. Forgive me if I love all this too transparently.