Gentle Patter

On the roof of my truck is the gentle patter of rain and I saw (felt—I got drenched) some of it earlier coming down on my shoulders as if from a cottonwood tree. I swear it was frozen.

It’s not cold here but who knows what’s going on up there above the clouds?

I’m in a dark park alone-like and the public prayer rooms are closed so I’m in a holding pattern here on earth.

The music is a waltz now, in three of course, and I’m not even alone.

I like this gentle patter, but it would be better over a cup of coffee or even tea. No, coffee fer sure. I wanna be awake.

These almonds are delicious . . .