The Well

A sheaf of rain hangs over the hills, or a dark crows wing of rain falls with raindrops on raindrops riding piggy-back. It is 11 o'clock. Dishes were just finished in the sink and garbage must go out, water falling from the sky, or no.

I was thinking about Peter Shaffer, the playwright, though I do not know him personally. I am thinking of him now again, as I cast the bucket deep down the well of my mind like this, feeling for water and possibly something unexpected when it comes up.

Down goes the bucket again, it falls a long time. The sun is out. The bucket comes up. I remember remembering someone I met a long time ago, who I've heard lives in Alameda. I think about another person who works at a big bank now.

I know we're all connected somehow. So wish me inspiration, fame, money, a good lay, water at the bottom of my well. I'll give you crow rain, cleaned dishes, taken out garbage, and Peter Shaffer, and something else from the well.