4pm, Sunday

IMGP1972

Large raindrops against the windshield and roof of my car.  Thunder.  The smell of dirty socks, firewood, beer.  Familiar smells.  Familiar sounds.  Comforting.  Satisfying.

The rain stops.  I roll down my window.  The smell of summer rain drifts through. Infused with the fragrance of green grass.  Dandelion.  Pine needles.

I wait.

For what, I don’t know.  But I wait.

A loud crack of thunder.  Then a distant rumble.  Then stillness.  The sounds of silence.  Rustling leaves in the distance.  A cool breeze.  The sound of rain, miles away.  A bird chirps.  Just once.  The sky darkens.  Then more thunder.

It’s 4pm on Sunday.

A hummingbird buzzes by my window.  Like a tiny helicopter.  Stopping mid-air.  Looks me in the eye.  Then takes off.

The wilderness waits.  It just waits.  In silent anticipation.  For whatever may come.  For the next drop of rain.  The next crash of thunder.  The change of seasons.  Snow.  Wind.  Spring.  A rainbow.  Snowmelt.  Fire.  Death.  Destruction.  Armageddon.  Rebirth.  Any moment now.  All moments.  Timeless.  Hopeless.  Terrible.  Beautiful.  Sacred.  And Pure.  The inevitable change we can count on.  The inevitable stillness we can count  on.  Between the sounds.  Between the thoughts.  Underlying it all.

Stillness.

The peaceful, loving, deafening stillness of pure life-force energy.

Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting. . . . .

Just waiting.

 

 


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