Blame It on the Rain The woman has rings around her eyes, keeps vigil in her drenched blouse, listening for a speedboat slicing through the muddy water, its red and green lights flashing from the bow, a propeller growling as the wind howls, rain drops thick like dirty bubble tea pearls. Branches from a clump of trees drift close like neighbors eager to see how those next-door cope. She has prayed all the mysteries of the rosary, remains hopeful the super typhoon will exhaust itself and the sun’s rays will stab through gray clouds, heavy like cotton upholstery batting. Mayors vowing to tackle floods in San Roque are like presidents promising to stop all carbon emissions. On her iron roof she squats, lays out playing cards with one hand and holds a grandchild with the other. A Song for the Fallen It’s not Lazarus, dead for four days. Their stink of fish warns Ormoc 1 that felled trees can sweep away another barrio with muddy wate...