It's a rainy day in the vineyard.
A rainy day in America.
News so shocking, even hardened journalists choke on tears.
The children, my God, the children.
Winter has arrived.
Puddles form at the bottom of vines.
Drops, rain drops, pitter-patter, drip, edge down, gather, erode, flow, form, into a stream, down, down, down the hill.
Hard clay softens to mud.
The weekend farmer goes outside to think about these things, pulls cuttings from succulents, puts a finger in the mud, then digs with a trowel, reminds me of mud pies when I was a kid playing in a sandbox. Plant those cuttings in the mud, dirt in fingernails, new shoots will grow, new garden takes shape among rocks, in the cold cold rain, wash away that sin, in the cold cold rain, forgive us, in the cold cold rain, purify us, in the cold cold rain, strengthen us, in the cold cold rain, renew us, in the cold cold rain.