Thunderheads build in the west, faint rumbles precedent. Berkshire County or possibly Albany. Alone, I gather laundry, and move the chicken feed back into the shed. She writes expansively to start but each sentence becomes more and more clipped as she gets closer to the heart of it. Bean plants tremble in the garden, the tomatoes lean into their just-hammered stakes.
When she gets like this, I wonder what she wants from anyone not cloistered in her imaginary monastery. It's not just writing, as a storm is not just thunder. I pour a tumbler of cheap whiskey - all I can afford this summer - and step out on the sinking flagstones to watch. I wouldn't mind her being here but wonder if in person she's a talker. Some people confuse spirituality with being worshiped.
Just fall into my arms, won't you? Or not. Swallows dive into the barn and don't come out, a sure sign at midday we're heading into a good one. I write what I can, which is all I've ever done, and somehow manage. I always defer to you, though that's perhaps only just getting clear.
Storms begin at a distance, then enter the space of which we are aware. Weather re-establishes the vital connection. The discipline is to do it - whatever you decide it is - regardless of how you feel. Sensing an opening, these twenty sentences sift out of me to travel west and a little north. Rain begins and I watch it happily, the only way I can.