The rain drumming down the roof has no answers.
Nor do the leaves, each bowing in deference to a specific raindrop.
Although there’s something in the stark, dark grey skies that leads one to believe it has solutions to speak of, in addition to its winds, precipitations and preoccupations.
But it remains quiet.
One could easily go turning over mottled brown bottle stones half stuck in soaked earth and silt in search of clarity, perhaps a kind word,
And come away with no more than drenched dungarees and question marks dangling from tree limbs.
The waves speak a language I do not yet understand, though I strain every sense and muscle to comprehend, as if want always led to get.
Birds offer little relief – their songs stop and start without warning, their arrivals and departures more riddle than reason.
Perhaps better to dwell here in parts unknown, questions unanswered.
Perhaps better still to become the rain, the skies, leaves, half-stuck stones and waves – and one day, even the bird.