The sky is angry again this morning and the dog tries to climb onto my chest as I lie in bed listening to hail hit the windows.
I know the back entryway will flood for the second time this week, just as I knew when I went to bed last night that I wouldn’t sleep for the third night in a row.
Everything in my house feels damp, including the sheets that wind themselves ’round my legs. It’s been one of those summers, but it seems they are all either too dry or too wet or too hot or too chilly. We want perfection from Mother Nature, and she simply refuses to live up to our standards. I love that about her.
Naughty Kitten went outside early, still-dark early, before the storm hit, and I don’t know where he found shelter. He has a secret life when he walks out the door, I don’t think he travels all that far, but he has hiding places I know nothing about, and I will let him keep it that way. He doesn’t mind getting wet in the rain, and he’s not really afraid of thunderstorms. I love that about him.
It’s the end of another July, a memorable one marked by marriage. That day the weather was perfect, and for that I am grateful.
Water runs and there is never any stopping it. If you try, it finds a new path, around you or over you or under you or through you. Just like life.
My garden keeps growing, my face keeps aging, my fingers keep typing.
The sky is black to the east, but I know the sun can’t hide forever. It’s always out there, shining, burning itself up and out with no concern for those requiring its warmth. I kind of love that, too.
Between the trees, the clouds have formed their own horizon, just beneath a mirage of ocean.
If I liked the water better, I’d pretend to find a boat. But my feet travel best on land, gripping stone and root and hard-packed soil, always climbing.
Today, I thirst for nothing.
Water drips off leaves, and just in that moment before letting go, I see the world I live in.
I see it again in the puddle at my feet, smiling back up at me.
In the distance, I hear more thunder.