A Saturday run is on the schedule. Gray-tinged light from the window, one gutter overflowing. (Nice, it's raining.)
Feed the cat. (It's raining.)
Sip coffee and skim the news. (It's raining.)
Start some laundry, make the bed, scrub last night's cooking pot, put away the dishes. (It's raining.)
The text says, "Work on your running and your willpower."
(But, it's raining.)
Hit the road, soaked within seconds with the wind pushing rain under my hat. (It's raining.)
Sounds of water roaring through the creek, birds singing in the trees. (It's raining.)
Robins stalk unwary worms, a man with an umbrella pleads with his dogs to walk faster. (It's running.)
A cat hides under a porch, bikes and a baseball lie abandoned in a wet yard, tulips stretch and open for the water, lawns turn green almost before my eyes. (It's raining.)
A little boy in a rain jacket stomps through puddles, houses with their lights on in the middle of the day, an old man standing looking out his living room window. (It's raining.)
Up the hills, down the hills, up the hills, down the hills. Clothes stuck to my limbs, shoes like lead weights tied to my feet. (Still raining.)
And then, suddenly, I'm done. Six miles? Already?
Dry, warm, in a cozy armchair with the cat purring next to me and a mystery novel nearby. (It's raining.)