The Solace of the Squall

Slipping away for a little while…

It is just after 6 AM on Saturday morning when sheets of rain shroud the farm in rhythmic waves. The sky is a muted gray. The trees, resplendent in their high summer leaf, sway with the squall and soak up what light they may.

Inside, the cottage has the ambience of twilight. The furniture, which I polished just yesterday, rewards me with reflections of burnt umber. The embossed titles lining the bookcase gleam like tapers.

It will be a slow day. Our elderly retriever snores at the foot of the couch and I can see no fewer than 4 cats curled up in what tufts and crannies they have claimed. I, too, am curled up in my favorite chair, coffee in hand. I listen.

This fairy-light, the percussive persistence of the rain, and the basso of a frog echoing on the soaked porch lull me. I can let myself slip away, away to earlier days that were not my own.

I ride the distant rumbling thunder toward the past. For a brief moment, the drenched windowpanes soften the ruled stripes of the louvered shutters and distort the tenuous line between imagination and memory. I am another me.

The squall passes, and the spell is broken. Perhaps I will catch another glimpse on the next wave of windblown rain.

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