Rainy

The sun had come up early. Wet wheels on passing cars said it had rained during the night. Soon the morning's brightness had been replaced with a flat, wintery greyness. A nearby bird sang a mournful song. On days like this it's easy to fall victim to listlessness. Sunday morning rainclouds are rapey. They force rest. They are for lazy rumination, for lying in bed and yawning. People who live in the Pacific Northwest know this. For them it is a way of life. But days like these are best when they are sparse. Too much causes unhappiness, depression, a sense of inescapable gloom. When infrequent, they are restorative and nourishing, especially to the soil. And especially here in California, where the dry ground thirsts for rain. We need it, for the grapes to grow. What better cure for a rainy day than a bottle of wine? Realize that when you are drinking wine, you are drinking the fruits of rain. Know that each chirping cork singing out from a plugged bottle is a rainsong.

It is too early for wine, for now. Maybe later I'll get out of bed, after a few hours of tossing and turning.