WATER DROPLETS

In the morning the signs of the night storm show themselves. It must have really come through those parts. Some small trees fallen, and lots of branches thrown about. The sky, still dark, and the sun peaks and out. The cloud cover defiantly is the victor during the morning hours. It won’t be until middle afternoon that things clear up. And it’s as if the rain is gone, but the wind that was with it still remains. The dogs stop often to look around, somewhat puzzled, as it sings a song through the trees in the distance or comes across the open fields and dances the feral grasses, tall and strong but light, over to their sides. But for it all, it’s the droplets that amaze. Little water specks and orbs, dots and dashes, spheres and cylindrical artifacts upon the leaves and stems and other. I look at them. Some appear silver in the little light. Others dark, shaded, dense and robust. We look around some more. Nobody there. Perfect. Just the trees, fields, labyrinthine pathways. Only the thickets and chaparral, the long verdant ways practically sacrosanct. I touch quietly some droplets and move on. 

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