The man on the radio, with his deep and easy assured voice, says it might rain. Fifty percent chance of showers, summer rains moving in off the ocean currents.
There’s a one in 13 chance of drawing an ace from a clean deck of cards, a one in nine million chance of being stuck by lightning twice, a one in six chance of being Roman Catholic, and a one in two chance it will rain today.
Fifty percent. Which means that for every two of today it will rain once. Which means that it could rain or not and there’s no way to tell. Which means we know nothing except that we have these numbers and this voice of professional assurance and radio broadcast authority saying it’s alright, it’s explainable, quite understandable and predictable. The man on the radio said it might rain and it might not rain and that he’s got enough colored charts and data from the ocean flowing and wind blowing to come out confident over the radio waves saying what it will be like to live today. And the next time it’s exactly like this it might be different.
When the rain comes, I look at the sky trying to track the a single drop of ocean cold water pulling loose from the gray cloud and falling, abandoned into wild slanting descent to crash end into my eye.