Caught out in the rain on a spontaneous morning walk. On waking I couldn’t resist the dark clouds and chanting trees. The lighting is blue and electric gold - the color of water and autumn. Green leaves shine in the wet, my hair dangles in soggy curls that I sweep away or look through. My wool sweater is so old that it doesn’t itch on my skin: from Denmark, a dear friend gave it to me, told me a woman who sheered her own sheep had dyed it with vegetable pigments.

I recite botanical names as I pass ceders, bracken, swollen mushrooms, salal. Maple leaves lying everywhere like derelict flags or graceful swans come to rest.

Down the trail is a pile of railroad ties, broken black and jagged spears gathered in a heap.

I run home, sprinting fron shelter to shelter.

I want to paint, draw and write all at the same time, or perhaps just read with spiced tea and feel the day in its timeless poise.