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.