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.
A silver-gray pall has again draped over the peninsula; casting deeply and moodily the impression of tropical depression. Commuters sluice their wary ways through the juicy film clinging to the surfaces of the avenues. Pellets of precipitation rattle heavily on the skylight overhead. The birds are silent, while the shiny wet leaves of the verdant canopy of the wood waggle to the tune of variable breezes.
Early morning foggy bay windows conflate the assembling verdant canopy before my brooding mind; becoming and impressionistic. From my bungalow of a tree house the view is bucolic, there are no other dwellings in sight, only the lilt of the foliage of the lissome trees. A harbinger of darkness draps over the peninsula, more thunderstorms insouciantly imbue the labyrinthine horizon. Precipitation is sempiternal; a plethora of Adam’s ale waving, streaming and pooling. The Susquehanna and Delaware swell with ebullience to ravel a propinquity of riparian for all. In penumbra we pause, the pall promising more to come.
SHADES OF RAIN
As I sit here in anticipation of the storms that seem to be dissipating before reaching this shore I view the map that is strewn with with that color between blue and yellow of the spectrum that is as green if not greener than the virescent canopy which drapes before me keeping the aforementioned cacophony at bay. Weather or not, the day will inevitably unfold to share it’s inscrutable riches on the haves and have nots, without a doubt like the wraith rains themselves, more so on some rather than others.
“It’s the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.” – Albus Dumbledore