rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

First Rain

In the grey dawn, the clouds settled on the town and swirled like filmy curtains, opening and closing. Through the fig, the treetops seemed as insubstantial as puffs of smoke. All day, I slept to the sound of water dripping from the leaves, provoking dreams of walking wet paths, catching glimpses of squirrels and raccoons scampering across beds of freshly strewn pine needles.

Awaking to an afternoon of slate sky and intermittent noyades of colorful leaves, I went about the town on autumn's glittering carpet, listening to the rush of freshened streams. Late, the clouds broke in the west, revealing patches of blue framed in silver and white, and sunlight at last streamed through to set the red and green and golden trees aglow, and turn the wet pavements to bright mirrors, reflecting woods and clouds and sky.

Trunks and boughs, dark and shiny with rain, are now revealed behind thinned screens of leaves, like an emerging palimpsest of winter's stark arboreal calligraphy. Darkness falls, and the ravelled message is veiled until another day. Concealed in starless night, all the wet woodland stirs in the cool breeze, and whispers, and hums.
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