I should be responding to papers for my online composition course. I am, in fact: I've paused in the middle of one. But as I write this, one of those glorious summer rains is pouring out of the skies, as if God opened the sluice gates and sang forth a river of water to fall as it does only in Texas. Awhile back, in a burst of post-dissertation frenzied self-reorganization, I rearranged my house and turned a spare bedroom into an office. In the process, my desk departed its middle-of-a-room-with-no-view address and took up residence in front of a window. Outside, my brightly blooming crape myrtles are dipping in the rain and floating on the breeze, and the thunder sings accompaniment to their dance. I set my work aside, made a cup of tea, and went outside to smell the rain. Urged back indoors by my whining dalmatian who prefers dry air conditioning to wet, humid summer, I returned to my desk, but my work lies unattended, and my eyes remain glued to the window. posted by Annie 3:33 PM | . . .
