A kingfisher resting in the rain. Gazing heavenward, the congruence of oxygen and love reaches the interstice of my cells. Royal birds and their faithful subjects . . .
The rain continues for seven days. I don't want the snow or its temperatures, so complaining really has more to do with awareness than wishing for a change. This and other graying stories.
Lately, my embodiment seen through another. A healing happens all at once when the synchronicity expands life's loose-leaf container. Sometimes it is these words and sometimes others. But underneath every letter is an integrated flow that has touched every single part of whoever I am.
One moves through the inseparability, finding more space than expected. They scoffed at the minimum wage hike and the taxes taken from my daughter's paycheck. Can that which one cannot see still be a teacher? It's not my rodeo, so I bow out in deference to the many things I do not know.
The night air off the back deck smells of skunk and rain. Wishing upon raindrops is better because your heart drops into the soil and becomes the surroundings in which you live. I have a thing about smoke, and it felt like a good night for a cigarette. Coffee instead, whereby steam is a proxy.
Curiosity to wisdom. The unicursal path with no dead ends. To walk is to exist and so far, that is the only sense I can make of this life.
Rain, rain, stay another day.