Saturday, August 8, 2015

The Rain Before It Falls

And the dog leaves first, the mattress sighing, soft patter of claws against hardwood going away. Once upon a time, typewriters. Thunder started a long way off - first in dreams, then in the dream - and one sat by the window to listen, falling suddenly back when a blast of lightening struck just above the neighbor's barn. Oh what the hash knife leaves in its wake! I hear the rain before it falls, or rather hear it coming from the west like a soft but steady wind and marvel at it because I like to marvel. This silence, this solitude, this act of service, this self that is no-self and knows it. Yet later padding softly through the house naked to close windows and wonder who else is awake or will awaken and what then. How fast the rain passes! Yet lightening lingers on the horizon, now and again, strains of a melody one is only just now longing to to remember. It's fine to wait and see what happens, it is. Alone is what I am and what I remain, at least for now, and that's okay too. It's more than okay. It is.

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