The many blues of a thunderstorm.

I love the sound of weather, the patter of sleet, the drive of rain, the quiet whooshes of wind bursts. Body curling among blankets and books, face pressing against cold glass, legs stepping from the dry bubble of an umbrella, listening, I immerse myself in the simple rhythms and harmonies of its patterns. I let it flow through me, around me, circling my body as if I am a rock in its a stream. Submerging me - wet and cold; hot then warm; forceful but soft.

8 More Days

Sigh loudly, look longingly. The piles of to-reads long ago over ran my night stand. Their stacks line my floor in neat rows, like cars in a parking lot, waiting to be picked up by their loving owner. And this loving owner is not at the opera, or a 4 course - 4 star meal, but feasting upon the dry bones of grad school articles and final projects.

One more week, I whisper to them. Then we will joy ride again.