All we ever really have is the sound of the weather. Patatap pat tap snowfall a muffled little shuffle out of step, unregimented. Great driving sheets in the rain wish, wishhhh, invisible arms gathering up a thousand misty splashes into one chunky splosh. Scratching and strange phonics from the cold embrace of dancing leaves using countless voices to speak a strange new song. Without these sounds we are fish or flowers.
Color races me every day to change the world, usually winning long before I wake. So far.
I am on a blue hill with cheering grasses, where clouds form to either side and drift off, showing me how they shade the world a little bit at a time. The sky is so quick here. Everything distant is slow. I am nearest, and still.
People music plays at the base of smoky trees. Nervous cooking, the squeak of polish, murmurs from a stupid baby who won't be either for long. Everyone is hungry or will be soon. Only a few moments appear like ghosts in the day where any of the tableaus break out into fireworks and spectacle but there are spaces out of time and twixt footfalls when a glance gesture or expression inflection or word unsaid screams like a burning meteor WATCH: LISTEN.
The tides take and shape us and if we are worn away then we are both the grit and the glass, the sand and the pearl, never only destroyed but also beautified. We take shape slowly, suddenly, and color the world.
I am a stride cross the lake. Two old men have the same argument, and the identical argument, and neither knows how to play their own game. They are not passing time. They are not past their glories. This is how light is made. Forces blow beneath the skin of the world but are mysteries to us. If there are gods they're not our business. We watch for the currents. Ours is the sound of the weather.
I know myself when every other place loses track of me. It isn't a keepsake. It's the recoursing of waterways. Those blisters leave you aliver than when you started. More of a thing. It may not be a thing you have known in the past, or a thing you can see. But we hear.
There's still so much daylight left. There's so much more before you sleep. Rivers change as they become deep. Walk barefoot down and feel the pulling welcoming sink of each step. How far can a vista in new colors be? My umbrella's still on the hill. Help yourself.