If the birds sang, I forgot to notice. If the puddles reflected rainbow skies, I forgot to notice. If the June sun felt strong and direct and hot on my back, I forgot to notice. The day has passed. Most of the night, too. If it called my name, I forgot to…

This thunder doesn’t clap. It moves and rolls like heavy furniture. This rain doesn’t drive. It ribbons and lashes. The green-gray green sky swirls and trees dance a frantic dance, all jazz hand leaves and shimmy branches.  This storm rides in on syncopation: floor toms, kick drums, snare pops, and yes, claps.

The day begins in silver light, deck boards slicked in dew. A scribbled note on the front of a plain envelope reads, we go where we sense progress: flow, river, resistance. It’s supposed to say least resistance. Yesterday’s woody path smelled of honeysuckle. The clouds in another country bruise purple and red.

The air is still and almost thick. Barefoot puddles on the deck after the evening rain remind me of summer days and wet sand shores. The sun slides behind clouds. It’s a good burn day. The jays sound like gulls. An ocean of traffic thrums along the boulevard of this Pennsylvania coastline.

Tail wagging and sniffer sniffing, the dog hunts treats hidden throughout the house. It’s a poor substitute for the rabbit he coveted earlier. We make the best with what we’ve got. Today, I’ll feed and water the plants. They’re starting to droop. Today, I’ll dole out treats intended to show I care.