Rain poured all night long and in the morning,

it became a shower, then a drizzle, then a sprinkle,

then drops and then he drove to the hiking trails.

He jogged, humming familiar tunes appropriate

to the moment, he thought. He dodged puddles

in soccer’s World Cup and kicked off to a team

mate. He noticed that he had an orange t-shirt on

and raised a fist for the Netherlands. When he got

to the woods, the sandy trails dried, but water

dropped from the pines, oaks, maples, and beech

upon his head. Water clouded his glasses. He put

them in his shorts, wiped the water from his eyes

and rejoiced for the rain, the puddles, the water drip-

ping from the trees, the cool drops on his warm

head and running down his throbbing temples. As

he emerged from the woods, he saw a large puddle

engulfing the entire width of the trail. He jogged to

the left along the edge of the puddle; he jumped to the

right making it just over the puddle, his heel slapping

the edge of the puddle splashing cool water up his hot

legs and then he kicked the winning goal. When he

arrived back at the parking lot, he took a victory lap,

bowed, got in the car and drove home as the drops

became a sprinkle, then a drizzle, a shower and

a downpour as he drove in the garage eager to

tell his wife that he got in forty minutes without

stopping.