So Dry.

My god it will not rain. It will not even think about it. We tee fall up right here on the edge of the autumnal equinox and it has not rained, it will not rain, there is not rain to speak of in the forecast—my yard is brown. Everyone's yard is brown. I misnamed our coming equinox at some point earlier this week when it was also not raining. I can't tell if we're coming or going, if we're vernal or autumnal, though that vernal tends to rain on us. And granted, this one tends not to. We just tend not to go quite this dry right now. Right now we tend to break out of August. We tend. We do. We just don't rain any longer. At all.

The shed winds down, or winds toward the next list to be checked off. The Toad winds and unwinds himself. The book sits. The dog is alright. The Braves lose. It will not rain, it will not rain, it will not rain.