Stare

 It was not a good day for the weary writer. The steady rain became a fixation and all he could do was sit and stare out the double panes. He knew there was much work to do, that this gift of time would someday come due, and he was going to have to give an account for the mindless staring. In a lesser time it would have been fine, even applauded, chalked up to creative necessity. But these were no normal days, what with the global warming and the ice caps melting. All around flags coming down, planets and moons aligning. He was even reading his online bible as of late, seeing if he could discern some more signs, hidden in the parables. And so he stared, guilt ridden and wishing the rain would cease. Someone said it was needed, but he didn't believe it. All concocted no doubt by the global geo-engineers, by the men in the Jets with the contrails ushering in famine. It didn't look promising. And so he stared.