In The Twilight Beyond the Deep...
Right now, I'm drenched in rainwater. It's December first, it's sixty degrees out, there's a bright white sky, and it's raining. A half-hour later I come inside, still comfortable, my fingers the only part of me that's cold. It almost hurts to type, but the keys have specks of rainwater on them and my hair smells like summer, and I love it.
This is what I wrote yesterday, another mild winter day with a completely different mood. I stood at that same spot today, and I have to admit that I prefer the rain.
As the fourth hour approaches, the sun sets. The moon rises on the other side of the sky.
I watched a bird pass over me and I cried and wished I could fly.
I laid on my driveway under a bright grey sky, the air balmy, a cool breeze on my skin, listening to the birds chirp and the wind blow through the zebra grass to my left. I closed my eyes and felt everything.
And there’s moss in the cracks of the driveway and I can’t remember them ever being there before. There’s growth on the last day before December.
I looked down and the white of my socks reminded me of snow, which seemed utterly out of place in the early spring landscape.
There’s a haze over the houses and pavement across the street, and the breeze and the smell of wet grass tickles my nose with memories of May and June.
My fingers aren't so cold anymore.
It's not going to snow until the fifteenth of December.
This is what I wrote yesterday, another mild winter day with a completely different mood. I stood at that same spot today, and I have to admit that I prefer the rain.
As the fourth hour approaches, the sun sets. The moon rises on the other side of the sky.
I watched a bird pass over me and I cried and wished I could fly.
I laid on my driveway under a bright grey sky, the air balmy, a cool breeze on my skin, listening to the birds chirp and the wind blow through the zebra grass to my left. I closed my eyes and felt everything.
And there’s moss in the cracks of the driveway and I can’t remember them ever being there before. There’s growth on the last day before December.
I looked down and the white of my socks reminded me of snow, which seemed utterly out of place in the early spring landscape.
There’s a haze over the houses and pavement across the street, and the breeze and the smell of wet grass tickles my nose with memories of May and June.
My fingers aren't so cold anymore.
It's not going to snow until the fifteenth of December.