Drizzle at the Sanctuary

Gray clings to the landscape. The river trickles below me. I can hear it but the the blackberries shield it from my eyes.

Traces of drizzle fall. The farmed mowed the tall grass in the fields. Baling will commence soon.

Clyde trots into my mind I have part of his ashes in an envelope at home. They await a spreading on the river, the sanctuary, but the time has not arrived. I will know.

I am writing this in longhand from an iron chair. I use a stolen pen. Seven dogs around me conspire for treats.

I don’t have a burn pile to ignite, and thus I won’t have the opportunity to see another hummingbird fly through fire. That was once in a lifetime. The hummingbird image continues to obsess me. I started a story about it in my head. I have no idea where it will fly, although it feels like an ancient tale.

Writing outside always relaxes me. I particularly enjoy writing when it drizzles. The pen makes arresting indentations in the paper after the paper has been softened by drizzle’s unique application of moisture. A love note written with drizzle would be especially romantic.

I look up. I see a swallow dart through drizzle. The image fascinates me, although not on the magnitude as a hummingbird flying through fire. Perhaps both can be worked into the story.

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