Mist, rain, chill, repeat, it’s Juneuary.

Mossy roofs, rain gutters leaf-bulged, a smell of drowned earthworms,

the slap of agglomerated raindrops under a maple tree,

patter like white noise,

chuckling drains and scalloped rain-waves on pavement.

A ’42 Chevy in a shed,

a deep-throated ship’s horn in the Strait.

The downwind glide of a seagull under the weight of wing-water,

the heavy upwind gull-work of flying,

two soaked, resting deer in someone’s yard. Calm stares. There’s no hurry.

A picture window framing a woman reading and drinking her cuppa,

a man thinking hard at his window desk, obviously a writer.

A Good Luck Knot on a door,

thoughts of an old friend who left to answer cancer’s summons,

the ache of his absence. We’ll not hear a laugh like that again.

A wind-driven sculpture wheel in a neighbor’s yard, spinning infinite circles.

Free air for the breathing, gloriously rain-scented,

free sky juice for rejoicing flowers, a galaxy in every one,

free food for the mind in Little Free Libraries everywhere,

free joy for the friendships that age well, and walk on.



Caption, last photo: Our friend Brion Toss ties us a Good Luck Knot on the eve of our departure to sail across the Pacific.