laramie

It was raining when I came out. I left my umbrella at the office last night. I got wet. I was carrying a plastic shopping bag containing two boxes of ripple chips for the office potluck today, so I held the package over my head and was a little less wet than I might have been. My bus went past while I was still several houses away from the stop and I was too loaded down to run for it. (Besides the boxes of chips I had my usual (heavy) bag of tricks). I stood under a tree at the bus stop while the sky dripped steadily down on me and felt myself to be some miserable wretch – until I noticed a bird perched on the peak of a roof across the street. Smaller than a robin, larger than a sparrow; I only saw it in silhouette, but it was perched there in the rain without even a plastic bag to shield its head, and it sat up straight and didn't cringe from the wet – only shook its feathers out before it flew away. That's one of the things I admire about the wild things: they seldom bother themselves over trifles that can't be helped.

Considering that last night's storm included a tornado touch-down that destroyed some houses and businesses in a nearby small town, and that large parts of the city were without power this morning, my damp condition is a trifle.

In last night's dreams I was currying a young polar bear. It had been lying in a snow drift and its fur was wet and heavy. It lay across my lap while I brushed its fur out, and I was surprised when it tumbled off that it was smaller than its weight had made it seem.