It rained and rained.
They were wringing out their tails,
they were wringing out their ears.
The Pumpkin Princess in the float next to the Mayor
looked like a Drowned Rat, smiling.
Those with wings had to take them off
in order to fit into raincoats.
Will it be like this?
The final gathering of the Saints
beyond the river of fire?
Will we all stand dripping
and shining in the fading dark,
blinking as the light comes close
and the great laughter draws us in?
MARY F.C. PRATT spins wool on a walking wheel, makes music, and teaches Christian spirituality in New Haven, Vermont. She dedicates this poem to Sylvia Chapin, "who was there."