I went out to do some fall yard tidying, grumpy and half-asleep, and discovered that the hollow, leprous onion stalks hid dozens of new baby onions, each with a surprised little cluster of new green leaves.
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I threw open the window this morning because I was roasting, and soft, cool air rushed in. I could see breaks in the clouds. A few minutes later, I heard a sound that I didn't quite hear, and as I looked out the window, the rain started coming down harder. It hissed gently against the roofs and the streets and I felt cheerful and cozy and safe, to be home and dry with nothing to do all day but catalog rain sounds.
This morning the rain still rattled in the drainpipes, but it only pittered on my hood and the windows were quiet and the water ran silently in the gutter until it gurgled (softly) into the sewer.
Tonight the rain rattled in the drainpipes and pattered on my hood and tapped on the windows and rushed, rushed, rushed in the gutters.
This morning the air was warm and the light was a strange purple-green color and it rained, rained, rained.
This morning the leaves made warm orange flames against the looming grey sky, and being indoors felt lucky and cheerful.
I was sitting in a conference room, and the sun shone in my eyes and made long shadows even though it was only one o'clock in the afternoon. Before this autumn, I've never been so aware of how much the angle of the sun changes at this time of year; the way the summer brightness turns softens into a half-light and the sun slides around the edge of the sky. I felt like my summer river self for a minute, or maybe a small rodent, eyes closed and basking in the dampened glare, then squinting at the towering, tumbled grey cloud mountains, and the sun peeking out among them.
My pillowcase was coming apart at the seams. I sewed it back up, a line of tiny, neat red stitches against the pale yellow fabric.
I have a new book from the library and it's good, and I've been reading so many books that are teaching me how to imagine new worlds.
The wind is gusty and wild. It drives the cold rain against the window; a clattering that tapers off to irregular tapping and then starts up again. The wooden skin of the house makes a fragile yellow bubble of warmth and quiet and safety.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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