It’s raining, it’s pouring,
The old man is snoring.
He got into bed
And he bumped his head
And he couldn’t get up in the morning.
A Mother Goose Rhyme
Every time I hear this rhyme, I become concerned about the old man and whether or not he might have a concussion. I hope someone was worrying about him at home.
It was raining so hard that the rushing noise woke me. It sounded like wind, but when I went to the window, the trees were barely rustling. It was the heavy rain, coming down with the ferocity only a tropical storm can produce.
I went to look and make sure it wasn’t coming in any of the open windows, but the rain was falling straight down. Last night, we’d taken in the bird feeders, backed the grill up against the wall of the house, laid the chairs flat on the deck in case we got wind as well as rain.
I was sorry about taking in the food, but seeds don’t fare well in a tropical downpour. I assumed the birds to be hiding in the trees. Earlier, when I looked outside, I hadn’t seen any birds, but when I put down my book and came into the kitchen, there was this one wet Mourning Dove sitting almost motionless on a metal hanger. I was surprised he had such red feet, but it turns out some doves have red feet, others have dark black or brown feet. He didn’t look injured, just awfully wet.
I don’t think there is any other way I could illustrate the rain as well as showing this drenched bird, patiently waiting for food to reappear. Rain notwithstanding, I felt guilty this poor, soaked bird had no food because we’d taken it inside until the deluge ended. I apologized through the closed kitchen door. The rain will end soon, I assured him. I promised we’d put the food back as soon as the weather made it possible.
I’m sorry gentle Mourning Dove. This isn’t personal. Just wet.