We had a rain storm come through
yesterday in the late afternoon. The sky drew its curtain of darkness. The rain came down and piled up several inches thick in the gutters during the heaviest downpour. It rained more during the night, a slower rain, coming like a freight train, not an express.
The morning sky is blue and bright, but quiet. Few bird calls. Across the street, sunlight on leaves the color of sunlight.
We have new neighbors; I have not met them yet. The season turns, neighbors come and go, life goes on. It is enough to wrestle my own devils each morning.
In downtown Fairwater, the light lingers on the houses, on the elevator and the lumberyard. In the country, to the west and north, a line of low, broken clouds. I can see the whiteness of sea gulls against them to the northwest. A flock of sea gulls sits on an empty field along Highway E. It's easy to see, now, a bank of clouds to the east, along Lake Michigan, far off. At Five Corners, an ambulance turns west.
Then between Five Corners and Ripon, I start to drive beneath the clouds I'd seen to the north. They are lower and wispier than they'd seemed from a distance. You can see blue sky behind them. A crow is black against the morning; it wants to lead me into town.
A little light in a darkened room might blind you, lightning in a night storm. A lot of light in the wide sky may go unnoticed. One should use such knowlege, but how?
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