Rain Hammers the Roof

Rain hammers the roof. There is an army up there. It is that Ken Kesey Sometimes a Great Notion, Halloween rain. It transfixes and it tranquilizes; it whispers and it roars. I will probably venture forth into it this morning, in body and mind, and seek out my fellow rain addicts. We never meet, of course, in rain that is, only through words that worship it. Everything is soaked and water pools on the yard. The dog stares out the window and longs for something. Open the door, and he won’t go out. These are the great gray mornings of walking in rain, maybe with a cup of coffee open to the sky, rain with coffee, not a dilution, but a vitamin supplement, a secret supplement. This is the perfect time to write noir and roll rain into the plot, but not the clichés of rain that always appear in noir. One day I hope to write the great rain mystery novel. I’ve been thinking about it for years. I want to go see a river running full and white, frothing, churning, spilling over man made channels. Somewhere in dive taverns and bars along the Oregon Coast, Hamm’s are being cracked open and men and women are sipping them in concert to the hammering on the roof. In a few of these joints, the drinkers will drift toward the windows an watch. In the windowless joints, they will just have to imagine.