It rained again
last night. It is cool and grey this morning. The world is refreshed by rain, until the point the rain drowns us, turns us to gobs of green mold. We might be getting close to that point now.
Again the clouds move towards the northeast this morning.
The wind last night tore bundles of twigs and leaves off the trees and tossed them on lawns and street. It must have been a storm blowing through. I did not wake for it.
The sky is still a Brillo pad this morning. North of the village, some of the corn looks a little beat up. The dead skunk looks dead. Its scent lingers. That's a scent I like very much, just not on me.
Part of a field of corn is underwater, there where there were sea gulls last year or the year before.
I might want to run away at times, yet I am wed to this world, here. I want to be like the river - always here, always moving on. Can we be that way? Can we live like a river?
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