TEXTING

I was in bed at 1 o'clock last night with an Isaac Babel short story when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, came a sound through the trees that didn't sound like a rare vehicle on the dirt road passing at such an hour, but maybe it was, and then a burst of rain released with complete abandon. I loved it. No matter what is in the way, the rain seemed to say, is now getting wet. Down came the torrent, and it lasted only one minute. Like a spigot was turned on and off. I only realized then I had lifted my eyes off Babel's words on the page and was listening eyeless to nothing but the rain. When it stopped, I continued with Babel.

Bob Arnold is the oldest son of four children born and raised in a borough at the foot of Mt. Greylock.