The storm examines each matter, bound or loose, living or dead. Seeds released in recent dry weeks drive into soil–now mud the rain makes. Too, those time capsules of life among grasses and leafy weeds rinse down with gust accelerate downpours.
Trees take early to energy conservation while tremors of each branch and stem twist and tangle to satisfy August’s dry, leafy itch.
September, too, litters the porch landing with chill-weak or spent moths. Spiders retreat to silken sacs of next year’s adventuresome arachnids.
All this is beautiful to my senses. I taste the coming storm to know if its promise will stay long enough before the next front shoves through. No lightening or thunder as in past weeks. No drum of hail.
Only a Sunday’s let of autumn rain to stay my obligations. Rock, rock, rocking with dogs at my feet, cats beneath the bedclothes, and, from the adjacent room, my love’s familiar exchanges.
My eyelids recognize the tide upon the window and l feel beneath me an easy rhythm, a glide back and ease forward.
(c) 2013 Sandra Davidson