On my way to the car I glanced at the sage’s leaves laden on what had been ground dried by two dreary desiccated months of a blustery autumn aching for the moisture of winter.
This rainy cold night seemed to be saying don’t go out but there was something that beckoned me beyond the warmth.
Wet streets magnify the lights dancing on the pavement as if to deny the darkness a victory ******* up the day’s grim mood into a mass of grass and mud extruded by the slow mushy pace of my boots.
The changing seasons have the mysterious mission of rustling us out of our fatigue or ennui hanging mosslike on our battered psyches.
Maybe the seasonal shift was that beckoning into the rainy night to transform me by its cavorting light to come here and write on these pages rich in dreams, imagining, and flight.
I was cavorting a bit with this piece, letting my imagination shift here and there, defying the rules of good grammar. But maybe that is ok in this season of transition and challenge.