The leprecauns have made off

   With real rain again this summer,

   Leaving us a dampening imitation

   That lacks the verve and charisma

   Of weather's truly political side;

   We are in a Republican season,

   Spirits sodden and unheeding of either

   Misery or joy:  not enough pain for one,

   Not enough buoyancy for the other.

   The wind has died an Independent's death,

   Leaving the field to a paltry shower

   Infinitely less congenial than the torrents

   That once descended from near-forgotten

   Machinery rusting deep beneath a platform

   Too vacuous to bear the weight

   Of speakers with any gravity.

- David W. Mitchell

to David   /  to Moongate