I sit on the porch as the rain falls down. Soft of the fall speeds and loudens as wave of stronger reaches; thunder high, no lightning flash, all hidden in the clouds; sound of the rain on lawn, on leaves and gravel road before; metallic strike to gutters above and patter run from spouts. More thunder, lightning this time; I smell the earth and the autumn leaves—different than in summer—when they start in color, then fall and fade and return as all living things in time—to earth.
Heavy fall then, dry under awn, I smoke a cigar—acrid and sweet—more stories, thoughts, and dreams in mind to be told when captured right.
They are not right yet. Most only come in early morns when world is dark and home is asleep and it is only the thoughts and I—alone and awake.
I wear a flannel shirt jacket and shorts. Harder fall of the rain scatters in fall, fractures to mist, and I feel it on my legs. I like it all—to be in the world, the wild, even if nothing more than lawn and cover of trees—to be present in world, in moment and time with rain and storms and sun, changing seasons, changing skies; beginnings and ends; death because all around is life.
Harder rain, heavy now, dampness drowns even earth and scent of leaves; and that is fine. It’s enough to simply be.
Alive and present—filled with seasons, stories, and dreams that arrive and live and happen in their time.