Not Always Raining


weeds-5

A damp leaf caresses my calf.

And, gently…

I become aware of where I am at.

 

Standing on the repeating ridge.

Quieting, the winds…

‘do not jump.’

 

With no recourse…

A fall begins.

Yet, there is not a landing to be found.

 

There is a vague inhabited attempt to recall the impact.

The inhabitants relay no message from the flight.

The quiet?

Drowned out for the air has been so loud.

 

So loud that…

In the downpour…

Silence is drowned by the solid ground.

Precipitously, the fog lifts…

And, I am back where I belong.

 

As if, the thickened air.

The jostled calf.

The grounded connection…

Were there for protection.

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