Holy Spit

Sometimes I imagine rain as a great big accident on God’s part. Particularly when it rains when the sun is out like God had turned on the big ball of gas for the day and hadn’t gotten the memo that a visitor was scheduled. On those days, it seemed that God was just drinking from a tall glass of water, and something or other had tickled the back of his throat before the water could make it down. Then He would inhale, chest lifting towards somewhere only he could reach, a point above existence if you will, and the air would collapse into itself as he sucks in the atmosphere. He would then huff and then puff. On sun bleached grass down below sprawled on picnic blankets we would listen as He begins the triplet push and pull we all know so well.

ah Ah, a pause, a bending of ears and then the crack of fury as spittle catapults from the sky freezing into ice and then back into water again, and the whole world shakes with a resounding boom.



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