On the Verge
A painter might notice these things:
The way the water peaks slightly
over rocks beneath the surface.
The way the willows blow in the wind.
The way the birds dart up and down
and over the bridge.
The way the light hits the clouds
from different angles,
revealing more shades
of gray and white than I knew existed.
A painter could capture the muted hues
of yellow and green and brown
in the tall grass along the bank
across from where I sit.
The neon green moss forming on the
legs of the bridge to the right.
The deep red of the barn
through the thinning foliage.
The steel gray of the metal roof.
A composer might capture the sounds:
Of leaves rustling in the breeze,
of wind chimes playing
a spontaneous tune,
the constant flow of the current,
the steady hum of a tractor
in the distance.
There are the smells.
The cold green air through my nostrils,
the moisture of a sky about to rain,
coffee spiced with cinnamon,
nutmeg, and chili.
But how to express the sense of ease
in this space?
On the verge of a storm,
On the edge of land and water,
stability and fluidity.
I don’t need to look for shelter yet.
I can find peace in a few light sprinkles.