I Live in Town Now - Trout Black

[Larry Robinson]

I Live in Town Now

We heard 
the rains were coming.

Around midnight a slow drizzle
and that wonderful new-rain smell,
and then, by 3,
a steady, hard rain,
continuous,
a deluge.

We lay in bed listening.

Silvia worried 
about the sump-pump screen
in the driveway,
and we were up,  
rain jackets,
hats and boots,
flashlights in our mouths. 

I turned the power off,
Silvia held the corners 
of the hardware cloth,
I lifted the two sections of grate,
leaned them against the house.

It was pouring.  
We were getting wet.

Silvia cleaned the screen
with the hose.

I rolled the right arm of my jacket
as far up as I could,
reached down into the sump,
and swung the pump out.

Cold water ran past my shoulder
into my underarm
and down onto my chest.

I pulled twigs, leaves 
and a crush of privet berries 
from the intake,
and reached back down into
the sump.

I pulled more leaves from the water.
A dozen screen scoops
of silt below that.

Rain running under my jacket.

I swung the pump 
back into place.

Silvia held the corners
of the cloth, 
while I refitted the heavy grates.

We swept the nearby concrete 
clear of leaves, berries, and dirt. 

We were soaked.

I remembered the years 
I’d lived at Slide,
and before that 
below Windmill Pasture:
a flashlight or a head-lamp,
patrolling all night
with a long pole
and a McLeod,
following the rain’s 
unequivocal demand:
keep the culverts clear,
or you’ll get a washout.

And one long afternoon
standing waist deep in
a redwood water tank,
completely drenched by rain,
reaching again and again 
into the cold water
to fix a clogged valve.

Finally done,
Boissesvain
and I looked at each other
with huge grins,
and agreed that this work,
uncomfortable to the bone, 
doing what has to be done, 
and getting it done,
was somehow
the best.

I live in town now.

Silvia and I smiled 
as we turned from the driveway
and climbed the back stairs
into our home.     

	- Trout Black