It's Raining, It's Pouring

But the old man is not snoring. The old man gets up in the morning and faces the brilliant sunrise. He dresses himself and cooks up a fairly large but not gratuitously large breakfast, feeds the animals, and opens the door to the wet sidewalk and the soppy trees. The rain has created a sublime layer of mystique over the fine land, with glinting drops here and charming running rivulets there. He slips his wellies on, urging his toes down, and sets out, finger on the shutter, hand on the lens. I am not snoring, he says to himself.