On the Start of the Rainy Season
Rainy season. I passed the last sunny day reading Gatsby in the yard. Now my world changes.
I live in concentric circles that increase in warmth and brilliance towards the center. In the center, my bed and cat. The next circle, my desk and writing. The next circle still, my kitchen and bookshelf. Every circle after that, cold defeats warmth, and I shy away. When the sun shines the circles are lifted, but I know they are still there.
The dark and cold encroach. The first incursions are mild - no tumult gibbers at the windows, and no pulse of downpour shakes the front door. Only the roof sings quietly that the rain has come.
I hear the roof song and want only to write, and write, and write.