The rain must be nearing its end. Wind rose a while ago, and the clouds have settled earthward, swirling through the forest as fog. Drizzle has given way to mist, and the soft trickle of the downspout has slowed until it is nearly inaudible. I think that sunlight might find its way here today, and evening will reveal the moon. When my energy will return, I can't say. My state of mind is less predictable than the weather. In recent days I have not wanted anything new, but have desired only to immerse myself in the familiar. Eventually, I will leave this state and regain some sense of adventure, but for now I reread old books and listen to old songs, and let words already spoken echo in place of adding new words. What will emerge beyond this time is one more thing I cannot predict. My perception offers no more clarity than does this fog which marks the passing of the storm and makes the night's end vague.
I had hoped to see a bit of sunlight today, but though the rain has gone, it has left the damp and the clouds behind. Open fields are barely brighter than the woods, few birds are about, and no insects but the ants who have invaded the house. All the wet winter they crept in, avoiding the saturated soil, and now they are back. I'd rather see butterflies fluttering among sunlit flowers, but today will not be the day for that. A few blossoms, now faded pink, cling to the dogwood, but more are scattered on the ground. Where the water has run down the gutter there are yellow swirls and deltas of pine pollen. A patch of oxalis flaunts bright white flowers, but is too small and sparse to brighten the day. The last cat mopes on the couch, unwilling to go out into the cold. I sit here remembering gray days I have enjoyed. This is not one of them.