Outside. Dark. Movement overhead. A bat, zigzags after mosquitoes. Then in the distance, lightening. Tricks of light. Steady strobing but barely perceptible.
Inside our windowed cabin: Closer. Then close–freezing the leaves and sway of trees in a timeless white second. Then the low roll, a crescendo, then a clap that shakes the cutlery.
My wife stays asleep at my side. All a-tangle and at peace in these oft-mended sheets of light we’ve shared for 23 years, today.
A burst of rain hits the tops of trees then down on our mossy roof. Then the helter-skelter ruckus of heavy raindrops bouncing on dry sod, glancing off poplar bark, spraying on dogwood. Soon, it all tapers to soft, polite, applause. And then the F clef notes and fading flashes, like receding footfalls and a swinging lantern. Then it’s over.
The sun broke hazy. The night storm had moved through leaving high overcast skies.
Outside. Full, petrichor. The air breathes for you.
Soft dewy light, pastel pines, and water-colour birch bark. The stone step damp and sated. And and the grass, needles, and leaves, still beaded and glistening in a perfumed breeze. And I am given to Wordsworth’s daffodils. The inward eye, quick as lighting and as illuminating, taking in far more than can be expressed.
I’m all a-tangle in these elms. I could just as well forget to unlace myself and not take the lane out.
