A January morning isn't supposed to make me think of spring. But there it is: the mist casting itself across my eyes, the rain meandering down the bark of trees (it's green, the bark is, and I think of moss growing in quiet places where water trickles from stream to river).
I walk. It's not more than one block and my ears ache, the cold seeping in and reminding me it's winter yet. Birds are silent but for the swoosh of wings and the clatter of branches. High above the branches of a bare Elm sway - but slowly with the gentle wind.
My dreams fade and I'm unaware. It's there that my mind is cleaned, and the tap of keys remind me of the darkness that was and is no more.
Smoke curls from a roof of neighbors, only one light is on. The hush of rain, the swiftness of clouds, the settling cold - I am still. May my thoughts be stilled, may these clouds slow me as they send the slow rain.
Should I miss the rain (how would I know?), tragedy seeps too, and slipping past, the waters may speak, but will I hear? May I not miss the rain, may I not miss you.