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The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. I came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the cornfield, said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognize, rhythms that are not those of the engineer. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and its porch with inconsistent and controlled rhythms. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness. At the moment it is still free, and I am in it. The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. By 'they' I mean the people who cannot understand that rain is a festival, who do not appreciate its gratuity, who think that what has no price has no value, that what cannot be sold is not real, so that the only way to make something actual is to place it on the market. L et me say this before rain becomes a utility that they can plan and distribute for money.

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