I spend a lot of time thinking about the rain. Look how low the river runs. Maybe it’s the farmer in me, but I fear we’ll never make it another summer. Golden and sun-kissed grasses aren't as romantic as they seem. In December it will rain; Seattle will see to that. I don’t need an almanac or meteorological estimations. It will rain because that’s the way it works. Always here and never there, creating envy amongst the masses.