A Day of Slow Rain by Jeff Hardin On a day of slow rain, the translucence of leaves reminds me, as a child, I wanted wisdom. Now I’m that man who forgets his raincoat and doesn’t seem to mind. It makes good sense to scan the margins of books. The notes penciled in may enlighten the text. An asterisk or question mark could change my whole life. Remember staring at a hen egg, wanting it to hatch? Then the next day your school desk and theories of time? Leaves in the water trough were cleaned out by hand. Some things can’t be improved—the gospel of Luke, the size of a blueberry, the taste of ripe plums, a quick leap over the lengths of a fern on the path. It was always a life of inconcievables and afterthoughts, a soundlessness to follow just after the bell chimes. Some mornings the breath of horses was the only thing to say. theMeadow 101
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