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.