Ah, Autumn…
After forty-seven days of no rain, “the backyard is singing, because/ it is raining.”
Two-day rain “makes eyelashes and shoulders, elbows, hamstrings, nipples, toes and tongues…” Rain kisses “Kayakers barrel[ing] through rapids” and ushers salmon up falls to spawn and die and become rain again. Rain is present in “the dark steam of each day lifting/ from the flat table of tar.” Rain in eyes of “rivet and handle.” Rain in the runaway girl with “a porous childhood.” Georgia rain. Oregon rain. Harlem rain. Even in the absence of rain – Nevada and Kandahar dust – we are in the presence of rain. The “man in a rowboat/ before there were roads…” That’s the kind of rain I’m talking about…
Why the obsession with rain? One of my earliest memories of autumn is riding on my dad’s shoulders in the rain as he'd sing: Raindrops keep falling on my head… Dah-dah-dadadada-dah-dat-dat-dada-dat! So, dad, this one's for you...
Welcome to the Fall 2010 issue of Untitled Country Review!
Scot
Scot Siegel, Editor
