Jay Hopler's The Abridged History of Rainfall is a not intolerable translation of Gunter Eich's 1955 collection, Botschaften des Regens -- Messages From the Rain. The German title -- Hopler's poems are suffused with his love of German poetry, Rilke, Eich and Trakl, in particular -- is mentioned in the Hopler volume's second poem, "Where is All This Water Coming From," a title at least in part about German gutturals. In an interview, Hopler has himself remarked on his preference for these sounds: "I love the way [the German language] looks on the page, the way it sounds, the way it feels in my mouth when I speak it. It’s gorgeous and I love spending time in its company." Spending time in the company of his mother, in the days after the speaker's father's death, he observes her sitting down on a dull, rain-less day with a book. He is with her in the sense that he imagines in her backyard a blue jay "lights for an instant | on the back fence. Some clouds wisp by." An insistent move of Hopler's -- self-correction-- comes next: What is the relation of the jay to the clouds? Are they as smoke to either? Hopler tries out the smoke trope: "Or is that smoke? Some smoke wisps by." The smoke, however, imagines gunfire, so that, too, is implicated as part of the mother's setting, unless, "gunfire," too, needs correction, so now let's try that as a car backfiring. I imagine Stevens, by this point, particularly his "A Postcard From a Volcano," as a tutelary spirit of Hopler's mother's climateric, as Vesuvius prompted Stevens to render the clarified openness in the air "in Autumn, when grapes made sharp air sharper," so Hopler has that car backfiring like (associatively) "wet wood burning." So Hopler lets the rain's message play: "But that can't be -- . All day | The clouds have rolled their grim lead | Westward and left us . . ." - --And now he's with her -- "nothing." Together the bereft couple may play in each other's thoughts, so the speaker will imagine what the mother is reading, a German language text that does not yet exist in English translation -- call it, well, it sounds very much like the title of the book in our hands: "The Unabridged History | Of Rainfall." Just the one small correction there to make. Hopler's reader can do it, too, now, this openness, like the synaesthetically clarified air opened by that burning wet wood, that we see, at the same time as we smell it, the birds we expect to take flight as auguries of the filial identification: "No, it's Gunter Eich, | Botschaften des Regens. That book, when read | By a widow, in her house, aloud, and in German, | Makes a man want | To turn his eyes sky- | Ward." What's so lovely about this, and so sad, is that by this juncture of a tableau that keeps getting nudged toward fable, it hardly matters whether the mother's physical presence in the house reading damn fine German poetry is the poet's conceit or not, for one way or the other, we are there and have already partaken of that hunger, that homesickness, for the wood-wet rainless air.