One morning all over town it began to rain, little downpours breaking
out in the bakery, the laundromat. By nine it was thundering in the
beauty parlor, drizzling in the jewelry store. All morning it kept coming
down, big plump drops cascading over tables, countertops, wreaking
havoc in the hardware store, in the barbershop splattering on whatever
heads it could find. There was no reason for the rain, no logical explanation.
Then someone recalled the people who’d lived here before us.
How they’d prayed for rain, how their gods lived high in the mountains
miles away and sometimes wouldn’t answer for years, old senile gods
who often became confused, how perhaps they were the ones who’d
sent the rain, the little thunderheads still massed at our ceilings.