The foals had been born in April, a brilliant month, neither wet nor sulky. Then summer came.

Almost every day it rained. The cracks in the old walls under the tall ruddy pines at Dr. O'Dea's deepened. Speckled wood moths died on windowsills. White dahlias bowed over tables in cafes. Earwigs sulked at the bottom of a sugar bowl, waiting. Meteor showers were watched with trepidation.

Yet even a ceaselessly wet summer produces what cannot exist in any other season. Blackberries emerged, tiny black jewels glittering in the wilderness. Soon juice will spurt between teeth unto dry tongues and stewed flesh will cool in jars for dark closet-bellies.

. . .

The other night, there had been eyes on the walls, spilling out of eggshells or from naked pale bellies. Small emerald bottles of French lager, chocolate eggs, Queen Connole's story of how the hero Collum chose his wife on the strength of her bladder.

There was also nail-spiked conversation; what you commit when you remember sins and perceive alienation. In the total blackout wrought by rain in the countryside, night was uneasy.

Then my alarm sighed. I lay between this and that world, in the ruddy glow from blood-veined curtains. All's forgiven, I mumbled to the fickle light. I rose and prepared for the new day.

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