Every spell of rain continues to feel apocalyptic. I should have got habituated by now; but each time I see the river swell with fresh downpour or witness the trees rustle like mad women, or hear the thud of aged, hardened coconuts falling onto earth or the shivering of the plastic sheets that border the backyard enclosure that has assumed the sanctity of my writing space I find myself in a certain kind of awe. The creatures around me are unperturbed.

The cats, Barfi and Cleo, continue to lounge, as does the Pomeranian, Aden, or the rogue cat who is too stealthy to claim belonging and who enters and exits like a thief (I call him Sylvester, because his black and white mane reminds me of the cartoon character, the one whose catchphrase was Suckering Suckertash), or the many varieties of butterflies that come and go and the one stray she-dog who thinks I'm her spirit human.