In the morning in the dark in the rain walking to the horse farms. A whisper of something floral in the air. Then the drip drip drip from the gutter as I lay in bed trying to keep warm.

The last of the snow in a sad deposit under the eaves by the trailhead at the state park. Landscape crews have picked the neighborhoods clean so it’s like nothing happened, the storm debris is now gone. The calendar is hung in an eddy between seasons. Both ends of the day bloom.

And there I am again dropping both feet to the floor by the bed in the early morning making my way downstairs. Hello to the cat and candle, the radio, coffee maker, yoga mat. The days fold over on each other, stacked like firewood.

The drip drip drip of the gutter, the TV. Swaddled in the quiet waiting to go to my meeting. Rehearsing what to say about what I’ve done, and what comes next. Trying to make sense of some weird dream.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, journal writing, pacific northwest, prose