rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


It begins to smell like rain. Afternoon's overcast slowly thickened, the shadows growing less and less distinct, until they were gone. The evening sky was a painter's scumbled palette of blue-tinged shades of gray. Pine-scented wind arose, and the new mulberry leaves shivered. There will be no stars tonight, and the moon will not rise to light the clouds until late. By then, the rain will have begun, I'm sure. I'm listening for it now, but as yet there are only the varied notes of the wind, and the rattle of leaves. The purple sourgrass flowers have closed for the night, and the freshly blown lilies are dim white spots amid aspiring, black leaf-tips. Everything waits.

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