Sunday, April 27, 2025, 44.4* Grey
A trace of rain softly this morning, doesn’t fill low places in the lawn. Through the fence Ruger watches a turkey deviate from the unyielding path, enter the woods disappear as if she had never been here.
Yesterday, after I fed the three their evening meal, as the rain was slowing, I walked outside, through the gate, without a cane, without my phone. I didn’t mean to go far. I assume the seeds are where I put them, I can’t tell by looking. Behind the container, in front of the house water rushes. Water rushes downhill spilling the driveway through the woods.
A brisk breeze blows. Breathing fogs my glasses but I don’t remove them. I did that last fall not meaning to walk very far in the rain with no hat to protect them. They fell from my hand or perhaps a pocket as I tried to right myself after stepping in a rain-filled patch without my cane.
Like snow, froth outlines just where a tree fell across the pond, where edges of land have not been crossed. Spring peepers could be heard above rushing water, a thinned-out chorus as if the center section was missing.
Water moves now, at this moment on a Sunday morning with the quiet reverence of knowing.
For over all, His glory will be shelter and protection:
shade from the parching heat of day,
refuge and cover from storm and rain.
Isaiah 4:6 New American Bible (Revised Edition)
Photo: LJ Austin
