There’s no sense in washing the windows when it’s about to rain. These early autumn storms come in sideways, drawing the curled leaf corpses from the puddles they pool in and throw them against the house. Some mornings you have to go out there and peel them down. Comes off in a solid sheet.
No point in trying to get out ahead of it, either.
You start running from a little rain, and you’ll finish in a snowstorm. The old-timer next door says as much, anyway. He gets out there, wrapped tight in his slicker, chin jutted to the sky.