(Ralph Waldo Emerson)
Out the meadow to my right cows black and white walk through brown grass and at left a hawk perched upon a weathered wooden post, peering.
In front of me the dirt-gravel road, grey, cuts the grassland leads back to town back to concrete back to noise, and behind returns to the stillness of where trees on hills grow to mountains.
A darkened cloud sky’s west and the smell of rain.
First precipitation in months and half of me thinks forward to sleep clean and dry where I pay for a bed between four walls and half of me yearns to be damp and dirty in the outdoors behind.
My walk halts, immobilized by consciousness battling unconsciousness within. Without, the western wind throws this first fall storm upon me and the meadow’s dry grasses all around sway wildly in anticipatory dance of water falling from above.
I at grey road’s edge.
And from that darkened cloud in the now not too distant distance thunder ripples its boom and the cows stand still while the hawk flips wing and from the old post flies.
It’s going to be a big storm. I should go home now, I know. And as I turn around it starts to rain.
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