Rain and wind and darkness. This morning’s storm, the last breath of a fury spent. Encapsulated, warm, listening, dozing, dreaming.
Memories. Woven into dreams, woven into fantasies. Sussuration, rain on window, wind through leaves. Distant shores, horizons hazed by time and place. Silence, deep and deep and deep beneath the waves and the sky and turmoiled clouds; waiting, waiting, waiting.
Silence. Between sounds. Between space and space. Between the moment, and the next, and the next. Riding the edge of the twitch of every leaf, the rasp of water on sand, the caress of wave on wave.
Silence. Deep and tall and wide and open, reaching up to the clouds, the stars, the dark, dark beyond.
Silence. Silent. Empty of sound, absent, absence, the not-here, the not-now, the not-a-thing-anything. Stillness, the cusp of action, activity, anti-ci-pation. Perfect, perfect, perfect pause.
Silence. The edge of something, of light, of dark, of the thin and narrow and the point of falling, falling, falling.
Dreaming. The breaking of silence, birth. Birthing. Begat a moment, a sound, an ending of and a beginning begun.
Waking. Sleepy. Rain on glass. Drifting. Rain on glass. Silence. Rain on glass.