Rain

It's that season of the year in Portland in which nearly every day is a rainy day. Not necessarily all day, but sometimes it is. The streets are wet whether there has been rain that day or not. Along what is known as the Park Blocks, a green pedestrian mall near our apartment, the ground is puddled. The squirrels are soaked but don't seem to mind. In fact, no one seems to mind being wet. It is a fact of life. At the same time, there is also some sun almost every day, often in the mornings, and the clouds blow quickly north or east, sweeping away the patches of blue, the sun itself, and yet they are high and somehow lighter than the clouds I recall from New York that seemed to sit on the city like a portent of doom. Not so long ago, as we were entering this season, I wrote a poem that expresses something of what it's like here in the rain. Here it is.


Rain


Most days it is predicted

but doesn’t always come although the clouds do
they rumble in from the west
where the ocean whips them up
then collapse on the mountains east of us

when it comes there is no warning no excitement
just the rain where before there was no rain
slant lines across the view
usually from the south

we walk around in it

sometimes it rains here
and at the same time over there is no rain but sun
or on one occasion as we sat in a restaurant
hail bouncing on the street
as if some kids were playing hailball
and in the next block up
bright sun dry street

At noon I walk through the rain to the dumpling café
for dumplings

how’s your day goin the guy behind the counter asks
people ask that question a lot here
I say ok
it’s nice and steamy in here
but surprisingly warm out there I say

we look at the rain

nothing to complain about he says
the rain comes and goes