The devil is beating his wife. She was stupid enough to marry him, she probably deserves it. (I don’t mean that statement. It just sounds good.)
I’ve had dinner with Satan before; he doesn’t talk much but he’s a good kisser. (I don’t mean that statement either. I just feel like lying.) Besides, truths on vacation. She went to Maui with an old college sweetheart. They’re sunning on the beach and I’m sitting here trying to beat the rain: birds going wild with song.
I used to always love to hear birds sing, wrongly assuming in my naive heart that singing meant happy. Actually, a lot of their voicing is out of fear and danger: warning each other that the neighborhood cat is near or that the human is in the garden, to steer clear of the bird bath. (at least for now.)
This is it. No way to end this thought poetically; the rain winning. And me, I’m standing in the yard daring the lightening to take its best shot: bold against the thunder: allowing it the first swing.