There is a rut in the road that has been wet all summer—sometimes it is filled with murky water three or four inches deep, sometimes just an inch of rich mud lies in the hollow. Of course, the dogs run through it every time we climb the hill, playing chase with the extra excitement of flying dirt, splashing sounds, and swampy smell. Today, after they’ve gone by, a small green head appears to watch their departure, warily, trying to make sense of the destruction wrought by this terrible act of god.