I wrote this a while back (the page in my notebook says 4-22-2002) but I reread it tonight and it struck a chord with me. Here it is:
The rain poured down from a cloudless sky. No one questioned where the water came from; they simply accepted it. And so things were in the city for centuries. The rain came each day, soaking into the ground. Dry dessert had long since changed into rich plains, but the plains were drowned, becoming dense wetlands. The people built levees and canals to control the water, but it could not be contained. The streets all became rivers. Buildings were tinted green with mold and their windows hidden behind the growth of vines.
Then one Sunday, the rain stopped. The people hardly seemed to notice. The roar of the rain had left the people nearly deaf. The waters began to recede. But the people were happy with their boats, so they pumped in their own water. The vines began to die, allowing light to shine through the windows. But the people had become accustomed to the dark, so they closed the shutters to protect their eyes. The mold began to peel away from the buildings. But the people had become used to the green. So they quickly painted the buildings because the change made them uncomfortable. The rain had stopped. The sky was clear. But the rain poured down from a cloudless sky.
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