Cloud Towers

This time of year, the weather in my little valley in Oregon is schizophrenic.  There can be rain and cold, biting winds.  And fifteen minutes later the sun is shining so hard you can feel the warmth on your skin. Today when I get to the river path, the sun is shining and there is a warm, welcoming breeze, a breeze scented with blossoms.

The river is huge today, rushing through town as if on a desperate errand.  The rapids are standing waves, a long curl against the current, dark green with white foam on top, turning and turning.  As I walk, the breeze turns suddenly, and fat, cold drops of Oregon rain fall down on the green water, leaving pock-marks and ripples in the water as it speeds past me.

The rain is cold and hard on top of my head.  And as soon as it started, it's gone and the sun is heavy on me again.

Walking in to the pub, I feel fresh and full of possibilities.  There's a man there with a guitar, tuning up.  And Ivy and Faliesha are there, and they are full of possibilities too, reflecting hope and purpose back to me.

The singer has started now.  Sunlight frames him from behind, through the glass walls of the pub behind him.  Outside, it has started to rain again.  The clouds are vast, white towers, and the sun glances off of them.