Sometimes a rainstorm reminds me to sit in easy solitude as you have shown me. They might assume you were once a bohemian clown with squash blossoms braided around your ankles, the way you lean back and cross your legs, bringing that demitasse cup to your lips, followed by a forkful of smoked cheddar omelet with saffron and wild scallions. They might assume I was a one-eyed raven sitting atop a totem pole beneath frayed curtains of gray cloud.
Sometimes a rainstorm puts me in the mood for bread and butter, stew and beer, after which I madly wipe the table clear like Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces famously ordering a sandwich. Then I unroll the scroll of an old tattered map with torn edges, eyes burning like a gold-prospector’s, at which point I try not to forget that empires only do two things: rise and fall.
C.M. Rivers 