The Rain on Alan Avenue

How the Missionaries Came to Marion, Virginia, 1955

In that far year when I was a child (you were not yet), I saw how rain on long afternoons can chitter and chat, gurgling and chortling out the downspout, its sing-song tune boring a brat with nothing to do.

That was the winter rain made us slip and slop through mud, and noses drip, till April drizzle made way for the sun. The roadside rocks were slickered with light and cherry trees rose out of the dark chemised in white.

That year heaven made constant noise— ice that sizzled in the pale beech leaves, blackberry hail that rattled the roof, the high fall wind (it made trees bow till they licked the ground) with a whirring voice repent, rejoice;

and boys in the street going two by two wearing snow-white blooms Good morning said to Sister Rain in the leaf-choked gutters, Good morning, brother, to Mr. Brown at the window pane who reversed his frown and said, How do.