banished

Someone finally untied the rain, and it came in glittering beads and daisy chains, dazzling amid the blinding blue of the all but clear sky. The wind turned the rainfall into a fusillade, strafing the unguarded world askew. The windows were flailed and spattered, beads of water trickling down through the gathered dust. These long strings of water loosed, the sun so bright it was blinding. Odd that to watch the rain, I had to shield my eyes from all the glare.

Now the coffee maker coughs and sputters, spitting out hot black coffee and the heady call of curls of bitter steam. My thoughts lean against the sides of my skull, threaded with straw and silk. My mind has trawled through the weather, scraped the curbs and kissed the gutter already. I am sinking, just sitting still. The smell of coffee alone seems to be all that sustains me. The promise of that first cup of ichor, the ink black root of motive, that ritual kiss of oblivion that awaits. The wheel turns backwards, to begin this spin again.

The rain has graced the new plantings and the old growth alike, a breath of life brought by an icy wind and a fickle storm. Each leaf glistening with that engine of green, the color of sun battened to the work of root and earth. The scrub jay takes curt, precise samplings of the fauna, while a crow rides long arcs through the trembling sky. I pour coffee into a grubby, spattered cup. Steam rises, banished by my breath. Steam rises, tethered to all the bitter hot meaning I abide.