The rain, it spilled out onto the green and brown velvet
an iced doughnut of foliage and flower in my yard
beckons me from books and house
leads me to the floor and twirls me round
rings my fingers with dirt lace
Rain on a metal roof seems urgent or forceful. When you hear it, you’re either inwardly frantic (while intelligently self-talking yourself into casual unconcern) or outwardly sleepy and willing to be drummed into Neverland. Either way, your first instinct when you hear the pummeling of nature upon your hard earned home is not to grab your keys and go bolting out into it. Yet that is exactly what Kevin Abernathy did on that afternoon on the first of May, 1992. Twenty minutes later the sun came out; brilliant rays radiated the leaves that overhung the gravel driveway, their slippery burdens dripping off and falling to the ground. But Mr. Abernathy wasn’t there to see it. He would not be seen or heard from for another twenty years.