Thursday, December 1, 2016


The rains had subsided. We walked. Upon entering a few of the really committed and true dog walkers could be seen. Greetings were made. One was finishing up and heading out. I had a good feeling about it all. The dogs sniffed and seemed happy. Fresh air. Movement. Brain and body activity. We went far and far and far. The rain, having completely stopped, left some remnants of itself on branches. These drops formed themselves quietly and didn’t fret. I thought, Aren’t you scared that you may fall into the grasses, the leaves, and disappear forever? They said simply, There is not a worry here, for we didn’t exist before and soon won’t again. 

Continuing on we saw the chaparral, the feral shrubs, an incredibly high old tree solitary reaching to the sky. We looked at some wilted flowers, felt the sand under our feet, and knew the pebbles and stones, the discarded branches, and a bit of wind.
Then it happened.

Just as we had entered a secluded and soulful path to make our way back. 

The rain.

It was patter patter patter against the forest top, and some of it was making its way down to us. We calmly went on, for what can be done? A little water never hurt anyone they say. It was its own music, and oddly enough, later, on the radio, which is rarely turned on, they played a composer and talked, I swear it, about how that particular piece was trying to find the nuance of water itself, mostly water in nature, as in what the speaker called the low and high sounds of a brook and everything in-between. 

Well, a brook we hadn’t discovered or been at. But I had stopped and turned around to gaze briefly but slowly and meditatively, contemplatively, at the fields. The sound of rain was there, - and the thing itself also. It coursed down and down to meet the land. It would keep people and their animals away for the most part, - until it really passed. And in a week or so it would be not rain but snow for the drop in temperatures. I thought about that, and how weird rain is in the beginning of December or the last day of November rather. 


Soon it shall be traded for snow.

And then I will be writing about other colors and shapes, impressions and the altogether different season.


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