A steady rain pelts the roof and wood
A soggy ground stands where I would have stood
A silver gray pall drapes over the peninsula
No outdoor show today, what’s worse, no moola
A silver-gray balmy breezy day. The winds are gusting to twenty-six miles per hour and the temperature is hovering warmly in the seventies. With rain threatening, the bleached white walks are already stained pink from moisture. The wood and it’s canopy of chartreuse, ochre, burnt orange and scarlet foliage are whipping, bending to and fro in an energetic Watusi of a dance. The leaves, rustling a louder song, sing interrupting the softer frenetic chorus of crickets and remaining insects chirping the last symphony for the season, the last hurrah.
The flood of rain persists, and a slick wet gel clings to the leaves of the verdant canopy, creating a greasy shine, reflecting the silver-gray pall of the cloak overhead. Darkly quiet, the soggy verdant canopy interrupts the cacophony of sluicing vehicles slogging their commute on the nearby highways. The zephyr tranquil, precipitation has become vertical, a translucent sheer, draped beyond the bay window, gossamer before the wood. Lonely droplets of silvery water drip sadly from trembling leaves, falling reluctantly towards the saturated loam. The storm, an ashen shroud o’er the peninsula, hazzards to hang on for hours and days to come.
THE THIRD SEASON
The prize pines at the perimeter of the wood have dropped their needles, carpeting the path with an ample amber cushion. A familiar aroma emitted from spilled sap, intense and intoxicating evokes in an olfactory system a false sense of security. Looming, the threat of precipitation drapes over the peninsula darkly, a silver-gray pall. Quivering from the rotation of an easterly flow the verdant canopy laced with an ochre glow, proof of a seasonal change and an autumn creeping toward winter, sends singularly chosen leaves fluttering like fairies to a new resting place on the floor of the wood.