Drop

The way the clouds change captivates me. I watch them drift, observing their alteration. They are like a language spoken by dust and water, the sky whispering to itself, and we cannot hear. We see the sky's breath, this vapor marking syllables, a cryptic, fractal text. The moon reveals transitions as each cloud moves, blends, separates, some of them fading and others growing more dense, some torn to pale tatters before they vanish, others piling into dark masses that suggest brooding or dark rage. All these verses scribed on dark sky, and I never know the words they contain.

( Sunday Verse )

Hours pass, and the woods rush toward the edge of shadow. The clouds have grown dense, have blacked out the moon itself, have captured its light to fill themselves with its glow. At last, small drops of rain fall. I hear them slap leaves and ping on the metal cover of the driveway lamp. They fall on my skin and evaporate, leving small spots of cold. They fall on the shoulder of my jacket, very near my ear, and the soft sound is immediately followed by the scent of the damp cloth. They fall all around, and their oddly dry sound fills the dim night. The conversation has been brought down to earth.

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Rain all afternoon. I didn't get out. Thunder storms are expected. The night air is full of wood smoke, as everyone as decided to light their fireplaces. I bet they will toast their Marshmallow Peeps! Oh, the horror!

That I am merely two bits of cable away from being able to set up the new computer, and have been unable to get out to acquire them, is quite frustrating. The floor is sort of clean, though. It's amazing how much lighter are the parts of the carpet that have been concealed for years than are the parts of the carpet that have had so much use. I now have a piebald floor. It will start a trend!