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.

I don’t want to curse the rain… yet… I wish it could hold off until after I walk the dog. He’s slow, sluggish, and stubborn in the rain. I don’t feel like driving the 50-some highway miles to a meeting – trucks spraying as I/they pass. In this respect, I am my dog.

A vibrant cardinal sits in a lush pine. A few houses over, a child screams as he plays. I can’t describe the scream, I can only say what it’s not. It’s not high pitched. It’s not guttural. Maybe mid-range with fast vibrato? The cardinal has flown away. Strong winds shake the trees.