The dark sky opens and it starts to rain. I go outside
to stand in the stream， the longed-for gift of water
where it hasn't rained for so long. I shout and dance
with the dog， who puts his ears back and licks my nose.
When we come back in， he shakes and I do too，
a few drops flying off my hair. I notice the Buddha
sitting on my desk. He's a rubber Buddha
in a yellow robe. If you squeeze him he squeaks.
He's got a radiant smile on his face， his eyebrows
happy half-moons over his eyes. As I stare at him
my wife walks by and with a cheery Buddha-like glint says，
"It's raining." In his right hand the Buddha's got a cappuccino
and in his left a cell phone pressed to his ear.
His lips are closed so I know he's listening， not talking.
One more thing-I pick up a little kaleidoscope
lying next to the Buddha and lift it to my eye to look outside.
I thought it would make the raindrops glitter
through the autumn-dry corn but instead what I see
looks like the ceiling of a great cathedral.
I whirl around and am presented with the image
of a thousand rubber Buddhas， each one
a drop of rain， falling， ready to hit the ground.