Rain on the skylight all day, up and down with the laundry, down and up with groceries, and the line of storms keeps threading the needle of our town until tonight when the backyard floods to six inches and the building kids come out to frolic in the changed climate of their inheritance, voices ringing; are they ignorant of its meaning or wiser than we, the true realists, the abstracted brief chroniclers of our strange times, the only times, as Billy Joel sang, they’ll ever know? A time for meditation in cathedrals of our own. The rain, falling like walls.