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.