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It’s raining very hard: the sky over the jungle is a waterfall.

The air Is full. Lightening brightens the sunrise. Thunder pounds and pounds above me.

The rain lets up. I can hear it on the jungle leaves, on the concrete walk below my porch, on the corrigated roof.

The birds chirp and sputter in the flood, welcoming the rain, happy with it. It’s life.

The frogs sing from their hidden places.

The rain picks up again. I can read the volume in the volume. Louder is more. It’s loud.

The yard fills with water. The grass is now a lake.

Nicaragua knows how to rain.

Yesterday in Kukra Hill we walked to lunch in the mud.

A young girl strolled by barefoot, carrying her sandals. Nicaraguans know rain and they know mud.

In Kukra, Pastor Joel has it in his mind to start a university. He is thinking ahead for los jovenes. He is thinking of the young girl with the muddy feet.

It is pouring rain in Pastor Joell’s head. His mind is a flood. It is loud. His mouth is a lake. It is full.

In Kukra too many of the beautiful young women have babies that someone beats. Too many of the jovencitas are prostitutes, servicing the men who have come far from home to work in the palm oil industry. The men walk in the mud too and play games on the porch.

Who is thinking about them? In what way are they being thought about. Who has it in his or her mind to a better future for them, to make an opportunity for their children?

The sun is up now. The jungle is a thousand shades of green. It is because of the rain.

The rain slows to a mist.

I sit here wondering.

Who will make the young girls, and their babies, who walk in the mud, sing in the jungle?

I think that the one with the rain in his head, he will do it.

I pray that what it will be will be loud.

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