Twenty-Four Miles On a Rainy Morning

I began a poem this morning driving in the rain. I turned the radio off, not interested in voices. I repeated the lines to myself, but I was driving and it slipped away in curious, strange whispers. I wanted to tell of the sound the tires made on the wet road, the tapping patter of the rain on the roof, the thousand drops scattered on the windshield like seeds on a strawberry. Cows stood in a field, patient under their wet hides. I was driving, fifteen miles behind me, nine ahead, so I couldn't write how the low gray clouds curved around the mountains like the hand of an all-mighty being, or how the leafless birches glowed against their somber cousins the pines. Slowing, cruising down Exit 1, downtown Brattleboro teeming with traffic even at this early hour. I wonder if other drivers turned off the radio, listened to the hushing slur of tires on the wet road and tapped the rain's rhythm against the steering wheel. Driving past the hospital, past the Meadows, stippled and gray, still but for the pattern of the rain on the surface. Park the car, climb the stairs listening to a quiet concert of birdsong and rain on last year's fallen leaves regretting that the drive is over and the workday begun.