This sounds like a chain letter but isn't.

People complain about the rain anywhere and always, though I’ve never much minded precipitation. Here we’ve had plenty this spring and supposedly cause for complaint (after three years of drought), and although lately it’s been hot and sunny, the rains came again this week, solid for about fifty hours, pushed up into the southeastern corner of the Appalachians by tropical storm “Bill” (a great opportunity to name the upcoming storms after presidents and their wives, or even that vice-miscreant, Cheney, the big “Dick” himself and potentially a hurricane with humor, barring any damge).

Anyway, here it is July 3, and we already have about five inches of accumulation for the month. It was a windless rain which ended yesterday about noon, after which some little wind kicked up the silver undersides of leaves, and it was all very lovely toward seven as the long angles of sunbeams shot through this ponderous sky and into these flashing branches of silver exchanging deep tints of coppery greens. Yet massive cumuli-nimbus clouds in all shades of grey remained squat all surround concealing the peaks probing this saturate roof, and how the sun penetrated this bounding vapor wasn’t clear.

All this as I am thrilled by my new books received yesterday from Ms CorpsePoetics, Eileen Tabios, books I’d gladly grab had I come across them in the local bookstore, 100 More Jokes from The Book of the Dead, by Archie Rand and John Yau, and her own Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole, and I even found 90 minutes to enjoy them, which I'd explain further, but won't as I am out of time, having some grape cuttings which need transplanting.