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.
THE RAINS CAME