Tourists who had planned this weekend,
Some since last year, many for months, jam
The sodden campground, cram the quartet
Of small sandwich shops and cafes
That serve the lake villages, park diagonally
Along the usually all or mostly empty streets.
Not a tenth of them would have come if
They’d been certain, absolutely certain,
Several weeks ago it would rain like this.
Another breakdown in the anticipation
Machine. Time for a little postdiction, a bit
Of retroactive clairvoyance, of hindsight bias
Unavailable until after the fact. I knew it.
I knew it. My joints ached. I saw this coming.
I felt it in my bones for days, and I felt afraid.
Heaven always meant to rain on our parade.
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