Wringing Out the Rain

A squirrel got into the homestead, it picked a lock with a dry thorn. The smell of dank fur clung. We carried small talk above our heads. Nothing put away but still dangles. Denim droops, snagging the arms of rumpled shadows, fusty jeans gander and loll. Calico and cotton are rescued the soggy separated from the mildewed. Soon front steps will be scoured, tails and collars made to flap while medium-sized back-yard critters flounce and fluff. If a blotting wind returns, the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail, we will wash bathtubs, fully clothed with yesterday's suds.