by David Wood
On a second story porch half way through the fridges’ end-of-the-week bastard eight pack and the remnants of a joint, I watch the rain, in my apartment’s parking lot.
Sometimes I sip my beer, and I’ll look at the rings radiating in the puddles. I forget for a moment what’s causing them. They’re something from no source, little miracles. Then I hear the rain pick up and violate the silent agreement we had that it wasn’t there.
Drops illuminated by a car driving by are the new miracle. The Car roars as it crawls over a speed bump, masking any sounds killing miracles. I feel like I’ve found god again, had a faith renewal.
