after the rain

We are coming off of twenty-four hours of straight rain. Sometimes arriving in heavy sheets so thick it was like staring at a slate wall. Other times in short bursts dancing down from the heavens.

The thunder was loud and shook the house, the sound sliding its foundation and resonating from its core. The lightning streaked along the clouds like trails of tiny rivers along the hillside.

We opened the windows and let the rain-washed air enter the house, giving it a feeling of Oregon summer in the middle of the Plains.

This morning everything seems fresh and clean, the earth around me full, the last bit of clouds waving goodbye as they drift along the sky ready to greet the next town along its path toward the ocean.

The chill in the leftover breezes makes the coffee taste that much better. It is mornings like this when I am most at ease with who I am.
No pretentions. No judgements. No agendas.
Just a man with a cup and a world in which I belong.