This morning, rain fell softly -
not in anger,
but with the patience of something ancient.
Still, we went...Charlie and I -
down Kenosha Street, where the maples lean like old monks,
and onto Phillips Street, which held the hush
of a hymn not yet sung.
Charlie, his ears swinging like small flags of joy,
tugged the leash with a kind of holy certainty -
as if the rain belonged to him,
and he to it.
Puddles rose like small silver altars.
He splashed them without repentance.
At the corner of Lauren and Mountain,
the world smelled of wet bark and earth’s breath.
Nothing hurried. Nothing apologized.
Charlie didn’t mind the rain -
he seemed made for it.
As though water could pass through him
and leave only more dog behind -
more life, more zest, more now.
By the time we reached home,
the sky was still weeping gently,
but he shook himself with the fervor
of something wild and joyful -
a storm inside a storm.
The back porch turned into a pond,
my hands already searching for the old blue towel.
Then -
damp but unconcerned,
he curled into himself on the rug
as though he’d walked not just the streets
but the entire, beloved world,
and now,
his only task:
to dream it all again.
GBS
2025
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