Too soon this wind will blow the wet away, but now the air is sixty, humid, soft. Leaves everywhere: both sky and puddle flecked with yellow - oak and ash and willow. They exhale again - feel frisky - want to play: forget the furnace summer; dance and float. The trees sway, branches wave - not bare, green yet in places, but more red or brown each day.
Is nothing sweeter than a rain washed sky? Gray cloud shreds race, leave space for fields of blue. My flannel shirt is muted, multi-hued: I'm camouflaged! I am no longer I: I'm this: this wind, this rain, these dancing leaves, this earth, this sky. I'm open: I receive.